


Neither Snow Nor Rain

by middyblue (daisyblaine)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Cold Feet as a Metaphor, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblaine/pseuds/middyblue
Summary: Patrick is sure he made the right decision to quit his job, break up with his fiancée, come out to his family, and move to Schitt's Creek to take a temporary holiday position with the post office while he figures out what to do next. It's just that last part that's giving him trouble. The Rose Apothecary and its prickly owner on his delivery route complicate things.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Ray Butani, Patrick Brewer & Theodore "Ted" Mullens, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Theodore "Ted" Mullens & Alexis Rose
Comments: 153
Kudos: 318
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	1. Week One

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> Patrick takes a seasonal job with a delivery company for the holidays and ends up with Schitt's Creek's newest general store on his route. David is prickly and particular and Patrick can't get enough of him. But he's only got a limited amount of time at this job before he loses the excuse to see David every day.

Position Information

Title: RURAL CARRIER ASSISTANT (HOLIDAY TERM) 

FLSA Designation: Non-Exempt

Occupation Code: 0308-0614

Non-Scheduled Days: VARIES

Hours: VARIES

RCAs may be required to work any day of the week, including weekends and holidays as scheduled.

RCAs (Holiday Term) hold temporary appointments during the period 11/28/2020 – 12/25/2020 not to exceed 28 days.

DRIVING REQUIRED: Applicants must have a valid state driver’s license, a safe driving record, and at least two years of unsupervised experience driving passenger cars or larger. The driving must have taken place in the U.S. or its possessions or territories or in U.S. military installations worldwide.

SALARY RANGE: Current pay rate is established at $17.29 per hour paid bi-weekly.

BENEFIT INFORMATION: This is a non-career position. Limited benefits include paid time off at the rate of 1 hour for every 20 paid hours.

### Saturday, November 28th

Ray had mentioned that at some point Patrick might have to make deliveries in the snow, which he supposed was to be expected for a holiday rural carrier position in the north, and that since it was a rural position he'd have to use his own car. He’d assured Ray that he understood, and that he could handle it. 

Ray had been silent on the other end of the phone for so long that Patrick pulled it away from his ear to check that the call hadn’t dropped, until Ray finally said, “Yes, I’m sure you can.” 

And Patrick had nodded to himself; he would say it over and over that week to Rachel, to his boss, to his parents: _Yes, I’m sure_. _I’m sure I can’t marry you. I’m sure I want to quit. I’m sure I’m gay. I’m sure I need to leave._

And he was; this move was something that he needed to do, a necessary change, and it made perfect sense to him that sometime before Christmas it would snow in Schitt’s Creek. 

He just didn’t realize that it would happen on his _first day_. 

He’d finally arrived in town late last night when a few fat snowflakes started drifting down, lazy and deceptively picturesque, and he’d gotten out of his car parked at the curb outside Ray’s and smiled to himself, thinking that maybe something was actually going right in his life. Maybe it was a sign, the snow, that things were finally going to work out. 

Ray had shown him the kitchen, the bathroom, and his room, and cheerfully wished him goodnight, and Patrick had felt excitement a little like when he was a kid on Christmas Eve: he was starting a new life in the morning and there was no telling what might happen under the promise of snow. It had looked so beautiful outside the window of his new room and he’d fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, for the first time in months. 

This morning, though, it’s clear that he’d been very wrong. 

He’d had to get up _before_ the crack of dawn, drive white-knuckled out to the post office through entirely unplowed and unlit roads with snow several inches deep, learn how to manually sort an entire town’s worth of mail, pack it all into his car, try and fail to memorize his route, and then head out into the still-dark streets by himself. 

His new boss Rania gave him a printout map of his route, thank god, but it’s already wrinkled from his gripping it every five minutes, double- and triple-checking where he is on his phone’s GPS and where he’s supposed to be according to the map. 

This is the first time he’s ever done something not in the plan that he and Rachel had been working toward since they were in high school, two like-minded kids with ambition and practicality set up for the picket-fence life together ever since their teen years. He's never been impulsive like this; he's never not thought things through. But he’d gone for his tux fitting and looked at himself in the mirror and felt like he might vomit right there in the shop, to the alarm of the sales associate. 

He’d waited fifteen years expecting and hoping that everything would work out, that at some point sticking to the plan would turn into _wanting_ the plan, in denial and afraid of being honest with himself, but his shaking sweaty hands frantically struggling to get that tux jacket off of his shoulders somehow was the sign he couldn’t ignore. He couldn't do any of it. 

It had been exhilarating at the time, coming out and quitting his job and calling up someone named Ray Butani and asking about his room for rent and any work in the area, but now he's not sure what he wants without the plan he had structured his life around, the plan that was contingent on marrying Rachel. He's never really chosen anything just because he wanted it, never really even been in love before. This job is supposed to be a way to take a breath before making any new commitments, a way to figure out how he wants to build his life from here. 

It just doesn’t _feel_ like he’s achieving any of that, although the sometimes-nearly-pants-wetting terror when his car slips and his heart jumps into his throat is a pretty good distraction. 

His formerly-trusty station wagon fishtails again as he turns a corner and he swears, his hands tightening on the wheel so hard they hurt. His back aches and he shifts in his seat, futilely trying to find a more comfortable position. 

He’s just not the type of person who _does_ this sort of thing. He’s never been so spontaneous in his life and, clearly, the universe is paying him back for thinking he could be. 

The snow looks nice, draped on tree branches and rooftops and giving the town a dreamy wintry glow, but it's a lie; it’s a fucking nightmare to drive in. He slows to a stop yards before an intersection, not trusting his brakes, and then inches forward until he’s clear, his tires spinning a little as he tries to nudge the speedometer up another five miles per hour. 

_Winter tires,_ he thinks gloomily. He’d taken this job on Ray’s recommendation as a stopgap to earn some money while he worked out what to do next, but it looks like it’ll eat into his savings before that even happens. 

“Well done, Patrick,” he mutters to himself. “You’ve gone and made a _spectacularly_ wrong deci-- goddamn it _fuck_ fuckfuck --” He’s taken another turn too quickly and this time he has to pump his brakes and turn the wheel to get control of the skid. 

He’d had the radio on at first, Christmas music nonstop because that’s apparently all they get out here this time of year, but he couldn’t concentrate with it on, so he just listens to the crunch of his tires over the unpacked snow, the low rumble of the engine trying to keep everything moving and heated. 

It’s not soothing, exactly, but having every sense possible attuned to the singular goal of not ending up in a ditch is the only way he’s going to make it out of this day alive, he thinks. 

He finally pulls in front of the next house on his route, sets the parking brake, and just breathes in and out for a minute, his hands still on the wheel. It's fine, he tries to convince himself. Just four weeks. He can survive this for four weeks. 

When he can breathe again without counting in-two-three-four-out-two-three-four, he checks the street address on the next bundle and the house number; both #4130, thank god, and this house even has a helpful “The Schitt Family Welcomes You!” sign, which goes nicely with the “Mr. and Mrs. Schitt” name on the address label. 

He could stick all the letters and flats into their mailbox without getting out of the car -- thank god for his old Ford Taurus; if he puts up the armrest he can literally slide across to the passenger seat -- but he vaguely remembers that the Schitts have a package, too. He twists around in the front seat to reach behind him; it looks like a repurposed Amazon box for a Jocelyn Schitt and it definitely will not fit into the mailbox. 

He’s going to have to get out and walk up to the door and his shoes are _already_ cold and wet. He adds _real snow boots_ to his mental list of expenses and sighs. 

The road has already been churned into dirty slush here, clearly more well-traveled than the first part of his route, but at least the sidewalk up to the house is cleared and salted. He rings the doorbell and waits, shifting on his frozen feet to try to get some feeling back into his toes. 

“Hold on!” someone calls from inside. Patrick checks his watch; he’s running so, so far behind. The door finally opens and he smiles politely. 

“Hi, Jocelyn Schitt? I have a package for you. I just need your signature.” 

“Oh, no prob,” the woman says cheerfully, her vowels rounding, reaching out for his mobile delivery device and stylus. “You must be our new carrier!” 

“Just for the holidays,” he says, taking the MDD back from her and trading it for the package. “I’m Patrick. Devon got temporarily transferred to the Elmdale route to keep up with their seasonal volume.” 

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” she says, then seems to think of something. “But definitely get some snow tires, if you don’t have any yet. Bob’s nephew is supposed to clear the roads but he’s, uh… not exactly on the ball, if you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I can see that. Well, hopefully this was the last big snow before Christmas, and then it can snow all it wants when Devon has his route back.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” she says, and it could be sarcastic but she’s still smiling in that rural friendly way he’s not yet used to. “And I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that this is my sister’s fruitcake, so I’m just a little tempted to tell you to keep it.” She winks, shaking the package at him. 

“Oh, no, thank you. Um. It was nice to meet you.” 

“Guess I’ll see you Monday!” 

He nods and turns to head back to his car but she calls after him. “Patrick! D’you want a cup of coffee? It’s awfully cold out there today!” 

He pauses. He’s _so_ far behind already, but… hot coffee. He waits on the porch, stomps frozen slush from his hiking boots, and rubs his gloved hands together, looking around at the snow twinkling around him under the bright winter sun. This, he can admit, is not so bad. 

Jocelyn returns in under a minute, with a red travel mug that says in big white swooping letters, _This is probably wine_. He tries not to grimace at it. 

“Oh. Thanks so much, Jocelyn.” 

“No prob! Just bring the mug back next time, okay?” 

“Will do.” 

“And hey, good luck with the rest of your route.” She grins at him, apple-cheeked, and he smiles back. 

The coffee is still hot and spiced with cinnamon. Maybe there are _some_ perks to this job. Maybe this won’t be a complete disaster. 

The coffee keeps him warm, at least, through to what looks like the town center. He pulls over and parks at the curb to check that he has a bundle for each business on this side of the intersection: Rose Apothecary first, then the Café Tropical. Bob’s Garage is across the street, but he’ll get there on the way back, whenever he manages that. 

He checks the map that Rania had printed for him for the zillionth time, nods to himself, and then squeezes out the car door, bundles of mail for the Apothecary and Café in his arms. At the last second he reaches back and grabs the mug -- he’s going to need a refill. 

Through the big windows of the Apothecary, he can see someone standing behind the register, tall and neatly dressed in black. 

He awkwardly hefts the stacks of mail in his hands and tries his best not to drop anything, balancing them on one arm with his empty coffee mug dangling from one finger, while he turns the doorknob with his free hand. He pushes inside and stops immediately when the guy darts around the register counter, holding up his hands in alarm. 

“Stop! _Stop_. _Do not move from that spot_.” 

Patrick blinks and freezes, the empty mug swaying. “Um. I’ve got your mail.” 

“Oh thank god,” the guy says in a rush, curving his back on the exhale. “You’re late and I thought there’d been some mix-up, like maybe you’d gotten stuck in an avalanche or been seduced away by Céline Dion or something.” 

“Céline Dion?” 

“She’s an icon,” the guy says, flustered, and Patrick starts to smile. “Whatever. You’re here now, so.” The guy looks him up and down, and then behind him to his car outside. “Okay, where are they?” 

“Where are what? Your mail’s right here.” He holds out the Apothecary’s stack for the guy to take, keeping his feet firmly planted, but he just gets stared at instead. 

“My mats,” the guy says, his eyebrows furrowed, like Patrick’s the one being opaque here. “Where are my mats?” 

“I… don’t know?” 

“I ordered those doormats, like, _weeks_ ago. I thought the worst part was waiting for the backorder to be filled but apparently that wasn’t torture enough! They were supposed to come yesterday before the snow but obviously someone screwed up, because here _you_ are an hour late, dripping gunge all over my original wood floors, and you’re mat-less.” 

Patrick looks down at his feet. He wouldn’t necessarily call it _gunge_ , but, yeah; there is dirty slush melting onto the floor from his boots. As he watches, a chunk of ice slides off his shoe and he cringes. 

“Sorry, I guess they haven’t come in yet. I can check on your package back at the office for you before I clock out, but I just have this for you today.” 

The guy finally takes the stack of mail, silver rings glinting on his fingers, and brings it with him back behind the register. He shoots Patrick a dubious look and snaps the rubber band off the stack, then pulls a disgusted face at one of the letters like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. This guy’s faces are _incredible_. Flustered, baffled, frustrated; Patrick wants to drink them all in. That’s weird, right? It’s probably weird. 

The thing is, though, that he's _exactly_ Patrick's type. 

“I feel like I just paid this one,” he says, shaking what looks like an electric bill in the air. “They just keep _coming_.” 

“Bills tend to do that,” Patrick says without thinking, fighting a smile when he looks up and narrows his eyes. 

“Um, does -- does your mug say _This is probably wine_?” 

Patrick glances at it. “Yeah, why?” 

“Nothing," he says, his eyes glinting with amusement, "just, you don’t exactly strike me as a live-laugh-love Pinterest enthusiast.” 

“It’s Jocelyn Schitt’s,” Patrick says, faking defensiveness, barely concealing his grin. God, this is fun. “She gave me a cup of coffee this morning.” 

“Look at you, charming the locals,” the guy says, his mouth crooked to the side. “So, who are you, anyway?” he asks with a wave of his hand. “You’re not my usual mail person.” 

“I’m Patrick. I’m just filling in for the holiday season.” 

“Okay, I don’t love that? Because our last guy, Devon, was fully trained in exactly what I need, and with all my holiday orders coming in, I just don’t know if I have the time to break you in, too.” 

Patrick tilts his head at him and the guy’s mouth opens and closes like he’s processing what he’s just said. 

“I don’t really have time to get broken in today,” Patrick says, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “because I am running a little behind. But I can look into your mats -- do you have a tracking number?” 

“Um. Yes. Yes, hold on.” The guy pulls his phone out of his pocket and Patrick takes the second to watch him, the way his dark eyes flick as he reads through messages to find the one he wants, the way his shoulders shift under his sweater when he leans with one hand on the counter, the careful way his hair’s been styled so that it’s all going the same direction, something Patrick’s never quite managed. He rips off a piece of register tape, scribbles down the long number with a pencil that looks like a twig, and hands it to Patrick. 

“Okay. I’ll check and let you know.” He slides it into the inner pocket of his jacket and smiles at the guy before he leaves; the returning smile is hesitant, and Patrick pauses. “Um, what’s your name? So I can look it up?” 

“David. David Rose.” 

“David Rose,” Patrick repeats. It fits him. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday, David.” 

Patrick heads back out the door, all too aware of the squish and squeak of his boots on David’s floors, and can’t resist looking back over his shoulder at David through the window. David stares back and Patrick lifts his hand in a wave. 

Well. That’s something. 

Bob’s nephew seems to get his act together around eleven, and one by one the roads are cleared and salted until Patrick can actually appreciate driving through the trees bent in white arches over the road, the glint of the sun on the snow. He’s seriously not a coffee person but the coffee refill in Jocelyn’s mug at the Café doesn’t not help, especially when looking at it makes him laugh, remembering David Rose’s bemused expression. 

One of the stops towards the end of his route on the way back to the post office is the vet’s clinic. Patrick’s been a little nervous about this all morning, because it seems like this package has cooler packs, and he’s not sure he wants to know what a vet gets mailed that needs to be kept cold but the heat in his car’s been on full blast all morning to keep him from getting frostbite through the open passenger window and he’s just a smidge worried about whatever it is. 

He sniffs gingerly at the corner where the tape hasn’t fully sealed, but doesn’t smell anything _off_. The sun’s been out for long enough that he’s almost warm when he gets out of the car, and the shift of the box in the crook of his arm is more practiced than it had been this morning as he carries it up the walk to the clinic. 

The door dings as he enters and he peeks his head out of the small hallway and is relieved to see a reception desk with someone sitting at it. 

“Hi, can you sign for a package?” 

“Oh!” the woman behind the desk says, popping her head up from where it had been propped on her chin. She hurries over to him, her blonde hair swinging, and takes the MDD to sign for it. 

“Can I ask, do you know what it is? Because I think it’s refrigerated, but it’s been in my car --” 

“Oh my god, yes,” she says. She reaches over the desk for a pair of scissors and cuts open the tape, the box still in Patrick’s arms. She checks a little disposable thermometer inside and Patrick echoes her exhale of relief. “Good. Okay. You had me worried!” She taps his arm with the back of her hand. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s insulin, for Mrs. Henderson’s diabetic cat. I’ll just --” she takes the box from him with a little hum and heads into a back room. 

Not really sure what to do with the rest of the clinic’s mail, he leaves it on the desk and turns to go. 

“Hey, hold up,” someone says. He puts on the best professional polite smile he can manage at this point in the day and shakes their hand when it’s offered. “I’m Ted Mullens, the vet.” 

“Hi, Patrick Brewer; I’m the seasonal carrier. I hope everything’s okay with the insulin.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Ted says, shaking his head. “Just, do you think you could stop by here first next time? We just want to be _paws_ -ative that nothing goes bad in transit.” He grins at his own joke, dimples peeking out, and Patrick can’t not smile at him. 

“I’ll see if I can rework the route.” 

“Good, because I’m expecting some live bait for my owl project to come in on Monday.” 

“Some -- what?” 

“Live bait,” Ted says, nodding. “Pigeons, namely.” 

“You’re getting live, _living_ birds in the mail on Monday.” He tries to imagine another insanely stressful morning trying not to die driving in the snow with his car also filled with swooping, cooing birds dive-bombing his head. 

“Yep.” 

“As... live bait?” 

“Yeah, I know, it sounds bad. But we’re tracking a snowy owl irruption and we kinda need bait to trap the owls in order to tag them.” 

“Sorry, a ...?” 

“Snowy owl irruption,” Ted repeats. His beaming smile is a little off-putting during this conversation, but his cheery energy is enthralling in its own way. “It’s when there’s a population boom of birds in an area, or a big migration further south than normal for northern-wintering birds like the snowy owl." 

“Interesting.” 

“Right? Hey, are you busy the next couple of weekends? Do you want to come see?” 

“I’m, um, actually working every day but Sundays.” He’s technically only worked one day so far, and not even all the way yet, and already he knows he’s going to need all the time off he’s getting. 

There’s a sudden crash from the other room, like several metal objects falling to the floor, and Ted jerks towards it like a reflex. “Y’okay?” Ted calls. 

There’s a pause, then, “Fine!” 

“I should probably --” Ted points towards the noise. 

“Yeah, of course. Nice to meet you, Ted.” 

“Yeah, totally! See you Monday -- don’t forget!” 

“Pigeons,” Patrick repeats. Ted winks. 

When he finally makes it back to the post office, it’s late enough in the afternoon that the snowy trees throw long shadows across the road that flicker across his face as he passes through. He parks his car in the mostly-empty lot and pats the dashboard, feeling a little silly but very grateful for this old clunker. 

“We made it,” he says to the ticking engine. “Okay. Go inside, check on David Rose’s mats, clock out, go back to Ray’s, fall asleep in front of the TV. Good plan.” 

He brings in the outgoing mail and the empty mail trays so that he can fill them with newly sorted bundles on Monday and his mobile delivery device, which he logs as returned and sets back on the rack. 

“Rania?” he calls. 

“Just a sec!” she shouts back from the clerk window. He peeks around the corner and she’s helping a customer with some stamps, so he settles in front of the computer and pulls up the tracking program. David’s slip of paper is still in his pocket -- he’s touched it every time he put his hand in his pocket today, relieved each time that he hasn’t dropped it -- and he smooths it out on the desk, careful not to smudge the pencilled numbers. 

He types it in and double-checks that he’s entered it right before hitting enter with a decisive tap. _November 27th, 2020,_ it says, _In Transit, Arriving Late_. The last update with an actual location noted was four days ago on the twenty-fourth at the Elmdale Regional Origin Facility, which doesn’t sound promising. 

“What’s up?” Rania asks, leaning over his shoulder. “Ah, lost a package?” 

“David Rose was asking about it. At the Rose Apothecary?” 

“Oh, him. A frequent flyer if I ever saw one.” 

“What does that mean?” Patrick twists around to look at her. She shrugs and goes to sort through mail that must have been dropped off during the day. 

“Just that he’s very… hyper is the wrong word. _Involved_ , maybe.” 

“He seemed nice,” Patrick says, turning back around. “Funny, even.” 

“Well, hello,” she says, with a too-knowing grin. He feels his face heat up. 

“Um. So what does this mean? Is his package lost?” 

She sighs and comes back to look at the screen again, peering through her wire-rimmed glasses. “Maybe. It could’ve just not gotten scanned on its way out of Elmdale and it’s on its way here. Policy is to give it five business days before we investigate. Budget cuts.” 

“Budget cuts,” he repeats. She pats his head and it’s so far from anything his old bosses would have done that all he can do is blink. 

“Go home, Brewer. I’m not paying you overtime to obsess over the Apothecarist.” 

“I’m not --” 

“Ah! Out!” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

His car seems reluctant to start again. He can sympathize. 

“Just one more trip today,” he promises it. “Then you can rest until Monday, I swear.” He pauses. “And now I’m giving a pep talk to my car. Fantastic.” 

Ray’s house is quiet; he must be out at a showing or something. Patrick opens the refrigerator and the cupboards and there’s _food_ but he feels a little guilty for eating Ray’s stuff, even though Ray had said to help himself. 

His stomach rumbles and he stares at his still-damp boots on the mat by the door. He can’t put those back on now. He just can’t. Before he can resign himself to only having the granola bar in his backpack for dinner, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes a breath before answering. 

“Hi, Mom,” he says, dropping onto the couch. It slowly hisses a sigh underneath him. _Yeah, me too, couch._

“Hi, sweetheart. How are things? How’s your new job?” 

“It’s good,” he says, trying to inject cheerfulness into his voice. He’s been moving since five this morning and pretty much ever since he realized he had to leave Toronto, and he’s so _tired_. 

“Your roommate is nice?” 

“Very nice.” 

“And -- and your boss?” 

“She’s nice, too.” 

“Good.” There’s a pause and the voice in Patrick’s head yells to say something, anything, but he -- can’t. 

They never used to have silences between them. It’s like she only knows how to talk to the Patrick who sticks to The Plan; now that he’s someone else, they’re strangers. The gay thing was only part of it; giving up the job and the fast-track towards the life they'd planned was a whole other thing entirely. 

“I talked to Rachel today,” she says finally. 

“Mom.” 

“She’s doing well.” 

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, leans forward with his elbows on his knees and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad,” he manages. “Mom, I have to go.” 

“Sweetheart, are you really not coming home for Christmas?” 

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

"You know she said your job is still open? If you wanted --" 

"I have to go; my roommate is calling," he lies. He can’t do this with her again. 

“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “I love you.” 

“Love you too.” He hangs up and drops the phone onto the couch next to him like a hot potato. 

Minutes later, he’s pulled his wet boots back on and is locking the door behind himself. His feet are freezing, but the fresh air helps to clear his head, and it’s only a short walk back to the main square where the café is. The tall windows of the café are fogged and it’s packed with people for the dinner rush, which he hadn’t expected. Nothing about today is happening like he’d expected. 

“Hi, Patrick!” Twyla says happily from behind the counter. “Do you need a place to sit?” She peers around and then points over Bob’s head to one of the booths. “It looks like David and Stevie’s table has some room, if you don’t mind sharing.” 

He hesitates, but his stomach rumbles again and he nods. 

“Great! I’ll be right over with another menu.” 

He makes his way over to the booth where David’s sitting and, in the second it takes David to break out of his conversation and look up, he manages to fully regret not having changed into a shirt that he hasn’t been wearing all day. 

“Hi,” David says, his forehead furrowed. He's wearing a different sweater than the one he was wearing before; it looks soft. 

“Hi. Twyla suggested I come sit with you guys, if you don’t mind? Looks like a full house tonight.” 

David looks around like he’s surprised to see so many people. 

“Hi,” his friend says, her eyebrows arched. “Who’s this?” 

“I’m Patrick. I’m just filling in on the mail route for the holiday.” 

“Oh, _you’re_ Patrick,” she says in an oddly knowing tone. David curls his lip at her. “Yes, please sit with us.” 

Feeling like he’s missing something, he slides in next to her. 

“Hi. Stevie,” she says. “I own the motel.” 

“Oh, you’re on my mail route! I think I talked to someone named Johnny? I helped him print your reservation list.” 

“Yeah, that sounds about right. He is actually David’s dad,” she says, staring at David, who grimaces. 

“Okay, can we not?” David says. 

“Sure,” she says casually. “Also, in the past twenty minutes I have heard an entire saga about David’s missing mats." David throws his hands in the air and Patrick tries not to laugh directly at his face. 

“You have?” 

“Yeah. I am getting the feeling, though, that the story I heard may have been a little… biased?” She looks at David and he glares at her. “Dramatized, even.” 

“Okay,” David says, “the _essence_ of what I said was true.” 

“What did he tell you?” he asks Stevie, who grins. 

“He said that you came stomping in with mud all over your boots and refused to give him his mats.” 

David meets his incredulous look with a crook of his jaw, then says defensively, “Okay, she’s exaggerating.” 

“ _Someone’s_ exaggerating,” Stevie says and shares a look with Patrick. 

Patrick smiles up at Twyla in thanks as she drops off a menu. It’s… enormous. He can’t open it all the way without half-blinding Stevie. She’s mouthing something to David, who seems annoyed, but she stops when she realizes Patrick’s looking over. 

“Um. Do you have any recommendations?” 

“The grilled cheese is usually safe,” Stevie says. 

“Okay… that kind of implies that some of this is _not_ safe.” 

“Twyla does the best she can,” she allows. 

“Is the tomato soup alright? Or should I go for the chicken noodle?” 

“The beef stew is surprisingly not bad,” David says. “I think she puts a healthy amount of wine in it.” 

“Noted.” 

Twyla comes by for their orders, looking harried. Patrick feels a little bad adding to her workload, but he thinks of Ray’s empty, quiet house and the empty, quiet apartment in Toronto that’s now Rachel’s alone, and a rush of gladness for being here flows through him. 

“So what really happened?” Stevie asks Patrick once Twyla’s gone with their menus. David drops his head back and her smile only gets bigger. 

“I had my arms full with the mail and I walked in and he told me to stop because I had snow on my boots, so I did, and then I heard about the missing mats.” 

“While your arms were still full.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Okay, this,” David says, gesturing around the table with his palms down, “is not what I would call polite dinner conversation.” 

“I mean, in _essence_ , it is dinner conversation,” Patrick says, trying to keep a straight face. Stevie nods solemnly. 

“Yes, that’s true. We are _politely_ conversing whilst sitting down for dinner.” 

“ _Whilst_ ,” David says, but that seems to be the extent of his argument. 

“Oh, we’re gonna have fun,” Stevie says to Patrick, not a little gleefully. 

“Mm, I am _so glad_ that you two have met." 

“So how long are you staying in town, Patrick?” 

“I recently quit my job and I’m taking a couple of weeks to think about my options,” he says carefully. “Ray said he might have some work for me after the seasonal position ends. We’ll see, I guess.” 

Stevie stares meaningfully at David and then seems to kick his shin under the table when, Patrick guesses, she hasn’t gotten the response she’s waiting for. When David shifts his legs out of her reach, his knee presses up against Patrick's and they lock eyes, startled. Patrick doesn't move his knee, and David doesn't either; they stare at each other until Twyla comes back to the table. 

She balances hot dishes much more capably than Patrick can balance rubber-banded piles of mail, and Patrick gets the chance to watch David let his guard down, just a little, as he blows on his soup and takes a small spoonful to see how hot it is. It’s such a stupid thing to focus on -- everyone does it and it’s _weird_ to do, watching someone eat -- but it’s like he can’t look away from the way David’s mouth moves. 

He tries to focus on eating his stew. David was right -- it’s wine-heavy -- but the warm broth and tender pieces of beef and soft carrots and potatoes are, somehow, exactly what he needed after today. 

“I did look into your mats, by the way,” he says, unable to keep it from falling from the tip of his tongue any longer. David looks up again, surprised. “I’m sorry to say that all I know is that they were in Elmdale four days ago. They might still turn up, but if not you can file a complaint on Monday and they’ll have someone look for it. I can help, if you want.” 

“That’s very generous of you." 

“I’m happy to help.” David starts to smile a little, dimpling the barest amount. 

“Also, it would be good to avoid having to jump out and scare any more hot strangers in order to protect your floors,” Stevie says. 

“Ignore her,” David says quickly. “She’s making things up.” 

“Okay,” he says, but he can’t stop the smile. “I wasn’t scared, though.” 

“You should be. If you get any more sludge on my floors I will… do something." 

“Oh?” 

“I will think of something, and you’ll regret it." 

“Okay.” Patrick shares an amused look with Stevie and goes back to his stew, his knee still pressed to David's, feeling like maybe he’s getting something right, after all. 

### Monday, November 30th

Patrick checks on David’s package again first thing in the morning as he’s forcing down sips of the post office’s horrible coffee, and there must be some Christmas miracle at work because its status has been updated to show it on its way to Schitt's Creek as of an hour ago. 

He’s buzzing a little as he goes through the letters and the flats -- Rania says that Elmdale has a sorting machine, but Schitt’s Creek, of course, is too small to warrant one; budget cuts, again -- and carefully arranges the rubber-banded letters and flats into each tray. He finishes his coffee and starts to wake up some by the time he’s loading the trays onto his passenger seat and the back seats, and the packages onto the floor of the back seats and the trunk. 

He makes a list of packages this time so that he’s not just going off memory. The vet’s bird carrier box he handles very gingerly and moves it back and forth between his backseat and the trunk, trying to decide which would be better, until he just leaves it in the trunk. It’s fine. The vet must get birds shipped all the time, and surely it’s fine. He warily looks back at it as he’s backing out of his parking space, wondering exactly how agitated they have to be before he finds himself reenacting a Hitchcock movie. 

Rania had told him that in a place any bigger, the post office would call Ted to come pick up the birds himself, but in a town as small as Schitt’s Creek it’s his responsibility to get the birds to the clinic in less than 72 hours from when they were mailed, which was on Saturday morning according to the label. 

He’d pictured, like, a cardboard box with air holes poked in, or even worse just an unidentifiable box that _moved_ on its own when bumped, but the clearly-marked cardboard carrier that they’re in has coin-sized holes around the top and sides which are covered with a white fabric, “to filter the air for their delicate lungs,” Rania had explained. He’s not so sure that pigeons _have_ delicate lungs -- at least, Torontonian pigeons definitely don’t -- but figures that it doesn’t matter to him as long as they’re calm in their carrier. He’s glad that Ted had asked him to stop by the clinic first, though, because driving around with them in his trunk all day would be almost as nerve-wracking as the snow. 

Gingerly holding the rustling carrier in one hand and the mail in the other, he pushes through the door to the clinic, relieved that it’s unlocked. Ted _had_ told him to stop by first, and surely he’d known how early it would be, but it’s _really_ fucking early. It’s still dark out and, as Patrick now knows from experience, will be for another hour. 

“Hello?” he calls, turning from the hallway into the waiting room. Sitting behind the reception desk Ted looks up, startled, and flushes as he puts down what looks like a string of three pearls. “You okay?” 

“Pft, yeah,” Ted says, moving it an inch and then two inches closer to the phone on the desk. “Hey, man.” 

“Hi. I’ve got your birds. Alive, I hope.” 

“Right! Thanks, again.” 

“Sure.” 

Ted takes the carrier from him and brings it into the side room. “You can leave the mail on the desk!” he calls behind himself. “Alexis will go through it when she comes in.” 

Patrick sets it down and takes a closer look at whatever it was that Ted had been playing with. 

“Is this an earring or something?” he asks. Ted returns and rubs the back of his neck, his face red. 

“No, uh. It’s a charm that fell off of her cell phone case. I found it under the file cabinet this morning.” 

“Huh,” Patrick says, looking between it and Ted’s flushed face. “Are you two…?” 

“No!” Ted says hurriedly. “No. We tried once.” Ted bobs his head. “Twice. We’re just coworkers now.” 

“Uh huh.” He tries not to look amused but Ted gives him an exasperated look anyway. 

“Okay, I know how this looks, but we are just coworkers.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says innocently. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“Just coworkers!” Ted shouts after him. Patrick shakes his head, laughing. 

It might be partly because the roads aren’t a winter hazard anymore and partly because he’s always done better when he knows exactly what to expect, but his deliveries this morning go a whole lot more smoothly than they had on Saturday. 

He doesn’t have any packages to drop off at Jocelyn Schitt’s, but he grabs her mail and goes to ring her doorbell anyway just to make sure that she gets her mug back. A scruffy man answers the door instead. 

“Yes?” 

“Oh, I -- I’m returning this mug,” Patrick says, holding it out. “And I have your mail.” 

The man scratches his stomach and frowns at him. “Why do you have Joce’s mug?” 

“She lent it to me the other day. I washed it, I promise. I’m Patrick, the holiday mail carrier.” 

“Oh, Pat!” The man’s face relaxes and Patrick exhales with vague relief. “Sure, sure. Roland Schitt, mayor of this slice of winter paradise. Joce’s at school already but she said you might be dropping by. Thanks for bringing it back, champ.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem. Have a nice day.” 

“Hey, do you know anything about plumbing?” Roland asks, and sucks his teeth. 

“Um. No, not really.” 

“Do you think if you drop an ornament down the sink it’ll block it or break into pieces that will just flush on down?” 

Patrick blinks at him. “I’m… not sure.” 

“Eh. I’ll figure it out.” The door slams in his face. 

Okay then. 

When he pulls in front of the Apothecary the store is still dark like David’s not in yet, even though it’s coming up on nine a.m. He thinks for a second, then grabs the café’s mail instead. 

The café is busy with people getting their morning coffee, dreading their Mondays, and he finds himself in line behind Stevie. He says hello and she turns around, her eyes barely open. 

“My coffeemaker died,” she says without greeting. 

“I’m sorry,” he says seriously. She nods. 

“The coffee at the motel is basically dirt.” 

“That sucks. Do you know when David usually gets in? I was going to stop there first but the lights are still off in the Apothecary.” 

“Yeah, he’s not good at keeping track of time, like, in general, but especially in the morning.” She gets to the counter and asks Twyla for “Big. Black.” Twyla nods with a sympathetic smile and Stevie reaches into her back pocket, then her other pockets. “ _Fuck_ me.” 

“Forgot your wallet?” 

“Yeah, it's in my other pants. God _damn_ it.” 

“Hey, I’ve got it. Twyla, can I also get a large coffee with one cream and sugar for me and -- what does David usually get?” 

“Are you sure?” Stevie asks skeptically as he pulls out his wallet, the café’s mail tucked under his arm. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“He likes the sugary ones. Mocha, caramel, whatever.” 

“Um, Twyla, can I just get one of whatever David likes? A large mocha thing?” 

“We have a new peppermint mocha,” Twyla suggests. Patrick gives her a thumbs-up and hands her the stack of mail and then his credit card. 

“Wow,” Stevie says, blinking. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just, I’m his best friend and I don’t think I’ve ever bought him coffee.” 

Patrick feels his face heat up and focuses on getting his card back in his wallet and his wallet back in his pocket. He hadn't really thought about it; he'd just wanted to see David smile. 

“Um. I think we should go -- wait over here.” He walks away from her to stand off to the side, out of line. She follows with a smirk that belies the dark circles under her eyes. 

“You think he’s cute,” she accuses. Well, yes. 

“I’m just being nice." 

“Uh huh. Ohh, coffee.” She reaches eagerly for the cup the Twyla’s holding out for her. 

“Thanks, Twyla. Well, it was nice to see you, Stevie.” 

“Sure,” she says, breathing in her coffee with her eyes closed. “Good luck with all that.” 

When he steps out of the Café back into the cold winter morning, the sky’s beginning to lighten to a soft slate grey and the Apothecary’s lights are finally on, casting a warm yellow glow across the sidewalk. Patrick goes back to his car to get David’s mail and carries it to the store under his arm, careful not to spill their coffees. 

“It’s about time,” David says as soon as he opens the door. He stands behind the register, arms folded, his expression haughty but his eyes flick uncertainly to the side. Patrick holds out the mocha for him to take. 

“The store was dark when I got here so I stopped by the café first.” David stares at the paper cup. “It’s for you. Peppermint mocha.” 

“Thank you,” David says haltingly, finally taking it. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

Patrick shrugs. “I wanted to.” 

He watches David take a small sip and smile to himself, and feels warmth fill him like the winter sun skipping bright over fresh snow; it could be addicting, this feeling. 

“Maybe if I bring you coffee tomorrow you’ll be here early enough to not put me behind on my route?” he suggests. David gives him a low-eyebrowed look. 

“Okay, I’m sorry if I find it a little disorienting to try to get ready for a day that technically hasn’t even started yet. And I’d challenge you to put together a cohesive look while your sister is curling her hair in the _middle_ of the room because she says the lighting’s better, even though there’s no fucking way.” 

“I mean, my day started at five this morning, so…” 

“Ah, so that explains the corporate gear.” A grin teases the edge of David’s mouth as he eyes the post office jacket that Patrick’s wearing. 

“It’s mandatory!" he protests. "And warm.” 

“Mhm. Well, while you’re here, I need you to help me with this.” 

“Sure,” Patrick says, probably too easily. He follows David behind the cash register into the small side room, where there are about twenty open half-packed boxes strewn around a massive pile of bubble wrap. “What am I looking at?” 

“These are the online orders that have been placed so far,” David says, standing in the middle of everything, gesturing around. “I need you to make sure that they’re shipped promptly and also marked fragile.” 

“Got it.” 

“ _Clearly_ marked fragile. If I get a bad review because one of these arrives shattered I am holding you personally accountable.” 

Patrick carefully picks a black ceramic crow from one of the boxes and examines it. It's certainly unique, but its box has an address printed on it but no postage. 

“Have you printed the labels for these?” He looks up at David, who looks blankly back at him. “You have to create shipping labels and pay on the website or bring them to a post office to pay for the postage. Or you could buy flat-rate boxes.” David’s eyebrows pull together and Patrick places the bird back in its box. 

“Well, that’s not what Devon told me.” 

"What did Devon tell you?" 

David's clearly trying to come up with an answer, and Patrick raises his eyebrows. "Okay, so maybe there wasn't a conversation," David says defensively, "but it was _understood._ " 

“You thought I would just take the boxes and they’d get shipped for free?” 

“I don’t know! I thought it was free delivery!” 

“Oh?” Patrick covers his mouth with his hand; David doesn’t need him laughing right now. 

“Okay, well, what am I supposed to do now?” 

“Well, you can take them to the post office. Or if you get a scale or a meter you can weigh your outgoing mail and print the postage label here and I can pick it up for you. Or get flat-rate boxes and re-pack them.” 

“Right.” David looks around at the boxes and bites his lip. “It’s just that at least one of these has to go out to Montreal, like, today, and I don’t have any of those things.” His eyes go wide and vague and his voice wavers, just a bit. 

“Okay, how about this? At the end of my route I'll come back here and pick you up and take you back to the post office. We can mail the ones that have to go out today and ask my boss what she thinks about the best option for a small business.” 

"I could do that," David says, like he's a little reluctant to be talked down so soon. Patrick pats his arm and if Patrick's fingers brush along the sleeve of David’s sweater, well. It’s a soft sweater, is all. 

David blinks at him, his long dark lashes like a deer’s, a spot of foam on his upper lip that he licks away. “This is good, by the way.” 

“Good,” Patrick says dumbly. He can smell the peppermint on David’s breath and for some absolutely ridiculous reason he wants to lean _into_ it. He clears his throat. “I’ll, um. I should go finish my route, but I’ll see you later? Are you okay to leave the store for a bit around four?” 

“Yeah, fine,” David says, waving the hand with the silver rings in the air. “It’s not like I get a rush of walk-ins, anyway.” 

Patrick leaves David with a smile that he carries with him for the rest of his deliveries. It’s different, delivering on a weekday versus on Saturday; most people are working, and he has way fewer conversations and faces less traffic. He hadn’t had the opportunity to just _talk_ to people at his old job, and he slowly realizes that he might have actually enjoyed it the other day. He'd like to do it more. 

He drops off the garage’s mail with Bob at three and places a painful order for snow tires and then, looking both ways, jogs across the street to the Apothecary. 

David’s helping a customer, putting product into a tote bag for her as he cashes her out, so Patrick waits by the door. He’d stomped the slush from his shoes on the sidewalk outside this time, but he still doesn’t want to track anything across David’s floors. David looks up and gives Patrick a small smile pulled to the side over the customer’s shoulder. Patrick smiles back and sticks his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t do anything embarrassing like wave at him. 

When the customer has dinged out the door, David crosses his arms and says, “You’re early.” Patrick shrugs. It's far from the first time he's heard that. 

“Ready to go?” 

“Yes, alright.” David ducks behind the curtain and says, his voice muffled, “Can you help me carry these?” Patrick takes a breath and follows him. 

The holiday jazz music is dampened back here without a speaker, and there’s only a small stained glass window to let in light. Despite the boxes stacked against the walls and piled on what looks like a futon, it feels… cozy in here. Like he and David are tucked away together somewhere safe. 

David points to a stack of three boxes with addresses printed out onto neat labels with the Rose Apothecary logo. 

“All of these?” 

“Mhm. Two to Montreal and one to Toronto.” 

“Are they all fragile?” 

“These two are. A crow and a candle, a throw and a notebook, and three candles and two soaps,” David says, pointing at each. 

“Wow. Okay. I’ll take the first two and you take that one.” 

“Be careful.” David hovers his hands by each box as Patrick picks them up. He decides he can carry them in a stack with the lighter one with the throw on top and still easily keep his grip on the other. 

“You know, legally these aren’t my responsibility until the postage is paid,” he says as he hefts the boxes in his arms. David gives him an unamused look. “Kidding. I’ll be careful.” 

David flips the sign on the door to _Closed_ , locks it, and follows Patrick to his car. He’d put the mail trays and outgoing mail in the backseat to make space in the trunk and David’s shoulder brushes his as they both lean into the trunk to load their boxes. He’s close enough to make out the crinkles by his eyes, the uncertain flicker of his eyelashes as he assesses the trunk of Patrick’s car. 

“It’s fine, David,” he says. “Come on.” 

David reluctantly gets into the passenger seat and clearly looks around the car, barely hiding his nosiness. 

Even though Patrick’s been getting paid to drive for the federal government, he feels more self-conscious about his driving now, double- and triple-checking for cars before he pulls away from the curb and watching the road intently with his hands clenching the wheel. 

“Your car is nice,” David says after a while. Patrick gives him a quick sidelong look. 

“It’s almost fifteen years old.” It's a miracle it still runs, if he's honest. 

“I mean, it’s clean.” David shifts in his seat, tugging at the seatbelt so it’s not bunching up his sweater. “Stevie’s car is full of, like, week-old takeout and empty coffee cups. I left a bag of candy in there once accidentally and I’m pretty sure it’s gone petrified in the glove compartment.” 

“Oh. Well, you never know. There might be a granola bar under your seat somewhere if you get hungry.” 

“Ew.” 

Patrick huffs a laugh, glancing over at David, who’s twisting and folding the seatbelt in his hands. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah. I, um. Do you think I can do this?” 

“Mail your packages? Yeah, I think it’ll be pretty easy.” 

“No, I mean -- this. My business. I keep hearing my mom’s voice in my head, and she’s telling me that everything I did in the past was just… fake. They faked it all and didn’t tell me. And now here I am being driven to the post office against the law because I didn’t know that I can’t just _give_ stuff to the mail person.” 

“I mean, it’s not _illegal_ , just probably frowned upon to give someone a ride while I’m on the clock, but it’s fine, David.” 

“What if I can’t do this? The web orders were Alexis’s idea from her _high school paper_ and the only way I’m going to make my lease payment next month is if I can get the online store going and I don’t know if I…. ” He presses his lips together. Patrick pulls into a parking spot and then tentatively reaches out and touches his shoulder. 

“You are doing it. You have such a unique point of view, David. And the way you care about your floors and making sure that your products arrive whole and on time -- if you pay that much attention to the rest of the business, there’s no way you can’t make it work.” 

“That’s kind of you to say.” 

“I mean it. And, hey, I forgot to tell you: your mats probably arrived sometime today.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“They were on their way this morning.” 

“Well, why are we still sitting here?! _All I want for Christmas are those mats._ ” 

Patrick laughs. “Come on. Let’s go pay your postage and put these in the mail and then we can see where your mats are.” 

He makes sure that David’s set with Rania helping him with his shipments before he goes into the back to check the computer system. The little slip of paper is creased from being folded in his pocket for days and the pencil is a little faded, but he’s still able to read it well enough to look up the tracking number. 

It’s here. 

He pushes the chair away from the desk with such force that it rolls away, but he’s already halfway to the bins of unsorted packages. It’ll be a big box, he thinks, and there’s only one of those -- and it has the Apothecary’s address on it. 

It takes some yanking to pull it out of the bin but he manages, and awkwardly walks it out to the customer area where David is transfixed watching Rania slap a label onto the last box. 

“Merry Christmas,” Patrick says. He hefts the box onto the counter, grinning at David, whose uncertain smile grows into something luminous as he realizes what's in front of him. 

“I can’t believe you actually found them,” David says, shaking his head, staring at the monstrous box in awe. 

“Well, I am a postal professional.” He ignores Rania’s raised-eyebrows look and leans against the counter as casually as he can. 

“What bragging rights,” David says, grinning. 

“Hey, it’s a legitimate profession!” 

“Okay, so, in your professional opinion, how am I going to get this back to the store?” 

“I just have to clock out and then I can drop you off on my way back to Ray’s.” 

“I will accept those terms.” 

“Great. You good to stay here for a few minutes?” 

“Sure. Rania and I can chat about… what was it? The thing you said I can get for the store so you’ll pick up my packages and I won’t ever have to come back to this sad little building?” 

“A meter?” 

“Yeah, that. Where can I buy one?” 

“You don’t buy,” Rania says. “You lease, and you need a permit. It’ll weigh and then print a postage sticker that you can put on a package and Patrick here can pick it up for you.” 

“Well, that sounds exactly like what I want.” 

Patrick leaves them to discuss the best shipping methods for David’s store and goes into the back to put away the outgoing mail, his mail trays, and mobile delivery device and to clock out. When he comes back out, David is talking about how he’d rearrange the space, his hands fluttering as he gestures around the small room, and Rania gives Patrick a look that says something like, _Get me out of this_. He nods and grabs the box of mats. 

“Ready?” 

“Yes. Are you sure you don’t want help carrying that?” 

“I’m sure,” Patrick lies. It’s _heavy_ , flat and wide, and there’s no way to carry it gracefully. David follows him out the door and to his car and then he realizes the flaw in his chivalry. “Um. Can you get my keys? They’re just in my pocket.” 

David hesitantly reaches towards Patrick’s front pocket, gingerly reaching in, and his knuckle brushes at the sensitive crease of Patrick’s hip as he pulls the keys out; his mouth twitches. Patrick does his absolute best to keep his face still, but oh holy _god_. 

David bips the lock off and pulls the trunk open so that Patrick can shove the box in there and remind himself that David is a _friend_ , and a new friend at that. He tries to talk himself down on drive back to the Apothecary as David fiddles with the radio. 

"How many times must I listen to this?" David asks, annoyed, as he flips to three different stations playing different versions of the same song. 

"What's wrong with 'Last Christmas?'" 

"Who needs a reminder of all the times they've been dumped around the holidays?" 

"I think it's hopeful," Patrick says. "Things might've been rough in the past, but that doesn't mean that this year you have to make the same mistakes." 

"Well, that's poignant," David says with a smile, and gives Patrick a considering look. "Some might even call it romantic." 

Patrick shrugs self-consciously. "That's kind of why I moved here; to figure things out, maybe find something new." 

“Well, let me know if I can help with that," David says as Patrick pulls in front of the Apothecary. "It was very nice of you to do this, by the way." 

“Do what?” 

“Helping me get my shipments out, and finding my mats, and helping me get them back to the store now instead of making me wait until tomorrow morning.” 

“It’s no problem, David.” 

“Still. Um.” David unbuckles his seatbelt and tilts his head, adorable in a way he doesn't seem to realize. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Patrick says softly. 

He meets David’s eyes and his mouth maybe drops open a little; David looks back from the passenger seat with a small smile like he’s waiting for Patrick to say something else, and he leans forward incrementally, his dark eyes flicking down to Patrick’s lips. 

Patrick's breath comes shallower and he can’t make himself move; he’s never wanted something so much he couldn’t move, never frozen up like this before, never had a voice shouting in his head, _just move just MOVE just --_

David’s adam's apple bobs as he swallows and Patrick’s tongue craves the scrape of the stubble on his neck. He’s reduced to wide eyes and dry lips and his pounding heart and David’s broad shoulders lean towards him and Patrick feels himself fall into David’s gravitational pull. 

Patrick thinks bizarrely, _please don’t let my seatbelt snap me back_ , and he’s barely breathing as his stomach tightens -- and a snowball hits the windshield. 

“God _damn_ it!” David shoves out of the car and starts yelling, “Alexis, I swear to god!” 

Outside the car, Patrick sees Ted mouthing an apology and he lifts a shaky hand in a wave. His face is hot and he tugs at his collar. What -- _what --_

While David’s arguing with Alexis, Patrick hauls the mats out of his trunk and up to the Apothecary’s door. He leaves the box there, just outside, so all David has to do is drag it in over the threshold and open it to put the mats down. 

David follows Alexis into the café and Patrick watches him go, his hands stuffed into his pockets. David looks back over his shoulder and they stare at each other, just for a second, until David turns back around. 

_Oh, fuck._


	2. Week Two

### Saturday, December 5th

He can't be falling for David. It was just attraction at first sight, or a weird intimate moment in his car, or something Patrick misread entirely. And it’s not fair to David for Patrick to chase whatever that was in the car when he’s not sure _what_ it was, or whether that’s what he wants. Right? Where do honest and fair meet? 

Is he just being scared? He doesn’t _do_ scared; he figures out what he wants and he goes for it. (He has been scared. He's not going to do it again; he's _not_.) 

Patrick’s stomach twists with the old familiar guilt he thought he’d left behind in Rachel’s apartment; he’s not being honest, again. Didn’t he just learn this lesson? Why can’t he just be _normal_ about this? 

Ray talks enough for the both of them at dinner, thankfully, leaving Patrick to spin through honest-fair-scared-just _do something_ and the next morning he wakes up without having resolved anything. 

But David's there the next morning, seemingly grumpy about the appearance of bags under his eyes more than the lack of sleep he complains about (his parents are going through an "amorous phase," apparently, and neither of them is inclined to discuss it further), and it's almost like nothing happened. 

There's a strange solace in it, that Patrick doesn't have to figure this out yet, but David seems to be waiting for something that Patrick doesn't know how to give him. So Patrick teases him; the day after that he finds a Santa hat and hands it over with David’s mail, fighting to keep a straight face while David looks up at him, baffled. 

“What is this?” 

“It’s a Santa hat, David.” 

“No, I know that. Why are you giving it to me with my mail?” 

“I thought you might like to wear it. You know, for festivity.” 

“For festivity.” David’s eyebrows climb and his mouth curves to the side and Patrick, relieved, thinks, _there you are_. This, he knows how to do. 

In what feels like no time at all, Patrick’s been in Schitt’s Creek for over a week. He wakes up before his alarm on his second Saturday, realizes, _I’m twenty-five percent done_ , and lays there staring up at Ray’s popcorn ceiling for only a minute and then he forces himself to sit up before he can give himself time to fall back asleep. He’d been having a weird dream about riding a reindeer with David as Santa Claus asking him over and over again when his sack of toys was going to get delivered. 

The room is cold -- the windows are drafty -- but under the covers he’s toasty warm and there was something else to the dream, still tugging him back down into it. He could feel David’s hand on his shoulder and the safety and faith of David’s warm gaze even while Patrick tried desperately to find the missing packages on the Island of Lost Toys. 

_Faith_. Jesus; he needs coffee. They barely _know_ each other. 

By now, his feet know to carry him to the kitchen in the dark to switch on the coffeemaker; to the bathroom in the dark so he can brush his teeth; back to his bedroom so he can pull on his jeans, a button-down shirt, thick socks, and the USPS jacket lit only by the dim bedside lamp. He pours himself a travel mug of coffee and steps outside and the winter air is crisp and dry in his nose. He’s always liked mornings as long as he’s not dead tired. 

His car starts on the first try, which is nice, and he sits there waiting for it to warm up, cupping his coffee in his hands, breathing it in like the aroma is the first step to waking up. 

He checks his phone for the first time this morning and his nice new routine is thrown off when there’s a text waiting from Rachel received around midnight: _Hi, Paddy. Can we talk?_ He stares at it. 

He knows how this could go. He could text her back, and they could talk later today when she has a minute at work. He could apologize for leaving and try to explain how he didn't realize he was gay sooner, that he didn't meant to hurt her or abandon their shared life plan so suddenly, and ask to be friends again and move back to Toronto and by next week he could have his old job back and find an apartment in their old neighborhood and spend Friday evenings with their old friend group, one-upping each other over pints of craft beer. 

He can see it happening so easily. And maybe that’s part of the problem: it would be so easy, just a repeat of history, a track they’ve worn down so well already that there would be no thinking about it, no intention beyond familiarity, no love in that decision. His life would barely change from what it was. None of it would really be his. 

He does care about her -- they spent so much of their lives together -- but he looks at her text and rubs his forehead and remembers standing there in the suit shop with anxiety seething in his gut and the need to get _out_ and he can’t make himself want it, this time. 

The want he’d felt in the car with David, the contemplative flicker of David’s eyes as he’d glanced to Patrick’s mouth, every single muscle in Patrick’s body tense with needing to... needing to _touch_ David, to _know_ him; he can’t find the words for it yet -- it's like nothing he's ever felt before -- but for the first time in a long time he can feel the buzzing in his bones that feels like hope and instead of fading it just keeps growing every day. 

_There’s no putting that toothpaste back in the tube_ , he hears his mother’s voice say in his head. He should call her, probably. 

_I’m sorry, Rach,_ he texts back. _I don’t think that’s a good idea right now._

To his surprise, the three dots bubble pops up immediately and he stares at it, watching it disappear and reappear, wondering what Rachel’s doing up so early, whether she’s at home in the apartment or at work already. He shifts in his seat and grips the steering wheel, debating with himself whether to wait for her reply and deal with it now or just turn off his phone until after his shift. Their whole relationship was him putting off dealing with it, pretty much. He’s got to stop doing that to her. 

_I just wanted to tell you that I get it,_ she finally replies. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He realizes he was expecting her to be angry or pleading; he’d braced to be dragged down into guilt. 

_You do?_

_I know you, Patrick._

The childish part of him wants to demand how she could have known this about him when _he_ hadn’t known, but she’s known Patrick for almost his entire life and she’s always been the smart one of the two of them. The day he finally left he’d come back to the apartment early from his tux fitting and sat across from her at their little dining table, wringing his hands tightly, unable to look at her, and it was like she knew exactly what he was going to say, if not exactly why he couldn’t marry her. 

“ _You’re leaving, aren’t you,_ ” she’d said in a flat tone. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” was all he could muster, the word a knife in his throat. 

“ _God, Patrick,_ ” she said, and rubbed her forehead in the way she does when she has a headache coming on from staring at her computer for too long. 

“ _I’m sorry, Rach_ ,” he’d said, and meant it. “ _I love you, I do, but not like -- I can’t._ ” She’d nodded and didn’t say anything else, not even when he finally pushed up from the table, or when he went to their bedroom to pack a suitcase, or when he tugged his key off his keyring and dropped it in the tray on the table by the door. 

He stares at his phone, now: _I know you, Patrick_. 

_I’m sorry, Rachel_ , he texts back. _I don’t know how…_ He pauses. The radio hosts switch over to another identically irritating gregarious pair because it’s the top of the hour and it means that he’s very late for work. _I don’t know how I let things get that far but I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. And I’m sorry I hurt you._

_Thank you for leaving_ , she replies, surprising him to the last. _It would’ve really sucked to marry someone who didn’t want to marry me and not find out until the honeymoon._

He presses his phone to his lips and closes his eyes, letting himself miss her; her cleverness and her kindness and the companionship they shared that let him feel less alone, if not right in his skin. He can be honest in this direction, too: he loves her comfortably and that love isn’t gone, even if it’s not enough. 

Something feels settled in his chest: guilt rearranged into sturdier piles less likely to collapse on him at any moment. Something he can live with; something that will let him move forward without the threat of it over his head. He slips his phone into his pocket and takes a big gulp of his coffee, which seems to sink right into his bones, warming him up from the inside, sparking a new energy for a new day. Maybe he can forge it with that honesty. Fortified by Rachel’s friendship in his pocket and hot coffee in his throat, he flicks on his headlights and drives off into the chilly dawn. 

Small flakes start drifting down when he leaves the post office to begin his route, and he smiles. His headlight beams light them up and it’s like he’s driving through stars, constellations swirling around him, fading into the slight dawn light, gray-blue with a specific kind of promise. He leaves the radio on, playing holiday music quietly, and this time he knows which corners to take slowly in the snow, which snowbanks are deceptively deep. He’s learning. 

He’s got two packages for David in the trunk, and he’ll stop at the café first so he can bring him a mocha, and David will smile at him in that oddly shy way he has, like he doesn’t know that he’s already hooked Patrick by the collarbone. 

David is a little odd and prickly and clever and beautiful and Patrick wants to be around him all the time, actually. It’s not in his nature to just let things happen like this; he’s never not had a plan. But he doesn’t know what David wants, or what he wants, and it’s fine to just… know what he wants right now. It’s _fine_. He doesn’t have to see any further forward than the reach of those headlights. 

Patrick waits in line at the café, which isn’t quite busy yet since everyone else is sleeping in for the weekend, and cheerfully says “Morning, Twyla!” once he reaches the counter. He hands her the mail and she beams back. 

“Your usual?” 

“Please, thanks.” 

“What’s the usual?” Stevie asks suddenly from behind him, and he’s not too proud to admit that he jumps a little. 

“Um. Just coffee.” 

“Really,” she says, looking over his shoulder at Twyla. “Because it looks like she’s making two.” 

“Well. Yeah. I mean. Coffee for me, and a mocha for David. It’s nothing.” 

“Huh. Another mocha.” She lifts her eyebrows at Twyla shaking red and green sprinkles on top of the whipped cream on David’s mocha. “That’s a lot of festivity for nothing.” 

“Well, I --” 

“Why don’t I come with you?” she asks, casual in a way that makes him nervous. Patrick takes their drinks from Twyla with a grateful smile and Twyla goes to get Stevie her black coffee without even asking. 

“Come with me?” 

“Yeah, I’m happy to be a buffer for you and David. I know he can be a lot,” she says, a too-knowing smile on her face. 

“I have no idea what you mean." She laughs and bumps his elbow. 

Stevie waits by his car as he grabs David’s mail and packages, takes the coffees from him so he has a free hand, and follows a few feet behind him into David’s store. 

“Patrick? I have a question for you,” David shouts from the back room. There’s no way he knows that it's Patrick, unless he’s memorized Patrick’s schedule, and it’s only been a _week_. Patrick drinks his coffee and doesn’t look at Stevie’s face. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I was wondering, why don’t you have one of those little satchel -- Oh.” He stops in his tracks when he sees Stevie behind Patrick. His sweater today is big and mostly white and fluffy and he looks a little like the Abominable Snowman. It’s _great_ and Patrick stuffs his hand in his pocket to stop himself from reaching out to touch his arm. Stevie grins and lifts David’s mocha, waggling it side to side. 

“Little satchel…?” she prompts. 

David crooks his jaw and props a hand on his hip, crossing one long leg in front of the other, his knees peeking out of torn slits in his black jeans. “You know,” he says haltingly. “The bags that postmen use to carry around the mail, like, in movies.” 

“They mostly just use those in cities when they have to cover their route walking,” Patrick says. He sets the mail down on the register counter and Stevie hands him his coffee and David’s mocha to pass along. David’s fingers brush his as he takes the cup and they share a smile, hesitant and hopeful. “There’s, um. Twyla put sprinkles on it.” 

David furrows his eyebrows and uncaps the lid to see the foam dotted red and green. He tucks his smile into his cheek but his eyes betray him, sparkling. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” He would bring David coffee every day just to see him smile like that. 

“Wow,” Stevie says. David curls his lip at her and swoops around the cash register to snap the rubber band off his mail and leaf through it, pausing on an advertisement for wrapping paper. He tilts the leaflet like the product images are holographic. 

“Riveting stuff today?” Patrick asks, knowing that David will be impressed by exactly none of it; it's all bills and ads today. He sips his coffee and lets it fill him with warmth as David glances up at him. 

“This is all junk mail,” David says, his mouth twisting like he’s trying to hide the smile again. Patrick shrugs. 

“It’s not my place to judge.” 

David’s smile peeks out and Patrick feels a pleased flutter in his chest.

“I’m judging,” Stevie says. She pulls out an eye-searing coupon for a “drive-thru beer barn” in Elmdale and holds it up for Patrick to see. 

“Yeah, that one seemed right on brand,” Patrick says, grinning at David's horrified face. 

“So you’re looking through my mail,” David says shrilly, waving an envelope in the air. 

“I kind of have to, for my job.” 

“Did you circle this one, the wrapping paper with the cartoon Frosty the Snowman?” 

“It seemed like something right up your alley.” Okay, he’d been a little punch-drunk with not enough sleep, but it had been funny in his head. David’s smile twists and Patrick manages to not laugh outright but he finds himself grinning back. 

“What’s with the sad holiday jazz?” Stevie calls as she heads into the back room. 

“Do not touch my music!” David shouts, breaking the moment. 

“I’m gonna put on something more festive!” 

“No!” 

The music switches to something more upbeat and Elton John sings, “Welcome to my Christmas song…” 

“Since when have you had so much Christmas cheer?” David asks her, accusatory, when she comes back out onto the floor. 

“Since apparently I have to be cheerful enough for the both of us.” 

“You just want to torture me.” 

“What’s wrong with Christmas cheer?” Patrick asks him. “Your mocha has Christmas sprinkles on it.” He's always liked the holidays and, while Ray is a good host, his spare bedroom isn't quite as festive as his parents' fully decked-out living room. 

“No, I like those,” David says quickly, rubbing Patrick's arm, and Patrick smiles to himself without looking too closely at why. “It’s just that I don’t know that Elton John really fits into my store’s aesthetic? Or Frosty the Snowman, for that matter.” 

“Come on,” Stevie says. She steals a sip of David’s drink, makes a face, and gives it back to him. “Step into Christmas with me.” 

“You could at least put up some lights,” Patrick suggests. David gives him a weary look. 

“Okay, I am very busy putting together holiday packages for my web orders. I don’t have time to decorate for a town that has shown no interest in actually coming into my actual physical store.” 

Stevie reaches up to rub a thumb across David’s cheek as he frowns and nearly crosses his eyes watching. She looks at her thumb and back to Patrick and says, “Huh. Not the Grinch. I was really expecting some green underneath.” Patrick laughs into his coffee. 

“Okay, ew.” 

“I could help you decorate,” Patrick offers before he can talk himself out of it. 

“No, really, you don’t have to do that.” 

“Really, I don’t mind.” 

“Okay,” David says, his mouth curving in a small smile. “I might have some lights in the back somewhere, if you’re sure.” 

“I have an idea,” Stevie says suddenly, her eyes lighting up with something that looks like mischief. “We need a fourth person for the gingerbread house competition tomorrow, since Ted is going to go hunt some owls or something.” 

“That doesn’t sound right." 

“Patrick, are you free? David needs a partner and it’s for a fundraiser, so you can’t say no.” 

“Wha-- Don’t guilt him into this by making me sound like a sad orphan child! Why am I the one who needs a partner, anyway? Ted’s Alexis’s b-- friend.” 

“So they are dating,” Patrick guesses. David tilts his head to the side with a grimace. 

“Not officially? They have a whole thing, and they say they’re just friends, but I mean. It’s only a matter of time.” 

“Yeah, watching that kind of thing happen in slow motion can be frustrating,” Stevie says, drawing rays around the circle Patrick had penned around the Frosty the Snowman wrapping paper in the ad, turning it into a glowing sun. Patrick and David look at her and she blinks innocently. “Well. This has been fun, but I should probably get back to work.” 

“Shoot, me too,” Patrick says. “Um. David, I’ll see you tomorrow? Maybe afterwards we can put up your lights.” 

“Sure,” David says, and the expression on his face as Patrick leaves with Stevie is something like wonder, or hope. 

### Sunday, December 6th

The town hall is packed; there are long plastic-topped tables spread all throughout the main room, with gingerbread house building supplies piled on each and people clustered in groups around them. He has to lean up on the balls of his feet to see over the crowd; he spots David’s shock of dark hair and _Excuse me_ s his way over to their table. 

David greets him with, “Thank god you’re here, because I am about five minutes away from committing homicide with the jagged edge of a chunk of gingerbread.” 

“Oh?” Patrick pulls out the metal chair that’s been left open next to David and sits, rocking on the uneven legs until he finds a balance on three of four with David's hand on his arm, steadying him. 

“Please tell Alexis that a gingerbread house is supposed to be a _house_ and not a replica of the _Burj Khalifa_.” 

“Um, excuse me, David. Plenty of people live there.” 

“She has a point,” Stevie says, picking an M&M from a bowl of candy in the middle of the table. 

“Ugh. Okay, Patrick, you’re on my team, so you’re on my side in this.” 

“Is that how this works?” Patrick asks, amused. David’s face goes vaguely displeased like he’s trying to formulate a comeback. 

“Hello, everyone,” Jocelyn interrupts, stopping at their table with a little metal tin and a grin that looks almost painful. “I’m collecting entrance fees. Twenty dollars each, if you can.” They all pull out their wallets and her grin turns into a grimace. “I’ve already had to turn down IOUs from Gwen and Ray.” She gratefully accepts their cash and continues, “This money is going towards removing the asbestos, and we really do need cash for that. The asbestos removal guys will not accept coupons for thirty percent off closet reorganization. Believe me, I checked.” 

“Mkay,” David says. 

“Okay,” Jocelyn echoes. She heads over to the next table and repeats her spiel. 

“So what kind of house are you envisioning?” Patrick asks David, leaning on the table with his elbows. David bats Stevie’s hand away for a piece of licorice and Patrick wrinkles his nose. _Licorice_. 

“I hope you brought some Xanax, Patrick, because you’re gonna want some,” Alexis tells him, examining the ends of her hair. David glares at her. 

“We will be building a perfect gingerbread house, impeccably decorated with color-coordinated candy and frosting patterns. Judging from the rest of the tables here, I feel like I can confidently say that we will win handedly.” 

“Sure,” Patrick says skeptically. 

“That being said, do you know how to glue the walls together? I did my Googling but our nanny always did that part so I haven’t exactly had much practical experience.” 

“I can handle that.” 

David cheeks hint at a smile and Patrick almost misses Jocelyn getting up at the front of the room to announce the start of the competition. 

“Alright, everyone! The rules are: you have an hour and a half to build your gingerbread house with your partner and the materials on your table _only_. The council will be judging and their rulings _are_ final.” Her weary expression suggests that in past competitions people have not accepted this. Patrick glances at David, who’s doing his caught-out face. 

“Last year we got a blizzard and they did a snowman-building contest and Ivan won with his cute little baker snowman and David got _very_ upset,” Alexis tells Patrick. 

“Oh, so there’s a history with Frosty?” 

“Okay, can we not?” David says, irritated. “I still maintain that my interpretation of a Rothko deserved at least an honorable mention.” 

At the front of the room, Jocelyn blows an air horn, and the entire room collectively recoils. 

When he recovers, David says, “Oh, my god, go,” and flaps his hands at the pieces of gingerbread on the table. Patrick nods and grabs for the tube of icing. 

Under David’s watchful eye, he carefully pipes an L of icing on the pan and stands up two walls at a right angle on top of it. 

“Here, hold these up,” he tells David. 

David gives him a skeptical look but trusts him and does it, wary fingers holding up the sides of the house as Patrick pipes icing along the base and between them to glue them together. 

“Okay, I’ll hold these for a minute or two, and then we’ll do the same thing with the other two walls.” David waits for Patrick to be in position holding them before he lets go, his ringed fingers nervously careful. 

On the other side of the table, Stevie’s hands are now covered in splotches of icing, and Alexis is holding a piece of gingerbread between two fingers, looking at it critically like there might be a dolphin tail notch hidden on the edge somewhere. 

David peels two paper plates from the stack and starts sorting candy onto them. The big bowl of candy has red and green gumdrops, rainbows of M&Ms and little marshmallows, mini candy canes and peppermints, white chocolate-covered pretzels, and red and black licorice. David picks out what looks like every piece of black licorice, a pile of gumdrops, white marshmallows, and candy canes. He examines every piece of candy like he’s making sure there are no imperfections and arranges them into neat, separate piles on the paper plates with the level of concentration that Patrick normally reserves for doing his taxes. 

“What?” he asks self-consciously when he notices Patrick watching. It's beyond adorable. 

“Nothing. Are you ready to help me put up the other half of the house?” 

“Yes,” David says, and he definitely sounds more confident than before. He watches Patrick line the icing base and along the sides of the standing pieces, and puts up the other side pieces without prompting when Patrick’s finished. He holds them, eyes narrowed in focus, as Patrick lines the joins with more icing, and then waits for Patrick to set the piping bag down and be in position to hold up the sides before he lets go in a smooth transition. 

“What a team,” Stevie says from across the table. Patrick blinks; he’d entirely forgotten that they were there. She licks a glob of icing from her finger and David makes a disgusted noise. She and Alexis seem to have given up on a four-walled house concept and have instead stood up two squares tilting against each other to form what looks like a tent. 

“I see you guys are making progress,” Patrick says with a nod at their creation. 

“Don’t be fooled. We can still win if we lean into a camping theme.” 

“When was the last time either of you went camping?” David asks. 

“Um, are you forgetting the twelve times I’ve been to Coachella?” Alexis retorts. 

“You were in a trailer that had its own sunroom!” 

“Whatever, David.” 

“Okay, are you almost done building the house?” David asks Patrick. “I have a scenescape to implement.” 

“Still need to add the roof, David,” he says patiently. “So you’re not gonna tell me what it is?” 

David glances across to Stevie and Alexis, who are eating dabs of icing and not really paying attention. He tilts his head down and Patrick leans in without really thinking about it so that he can hear David mutter, “It’s the Apothecary.” 

God, he smells good; the sharp clean cologne under his jaw and the peppermint on his breath from candy he must have snuck at one point are mixing together into a weirdly specific holiday kink Patrick hadn’t known he had. 

“Okay, but that’s not technically a house, either,” Patrick murmurs back. 

“Well, it’s what we’re doing.” 

“Okay, David.” 

He slowly, carefully lets go of the sides of the house and is relieved when it seems to be standing firm. 

“How do you make the roof stay up?” David asks, leaning into Patrick’s shoulder and craning his neck like he’s trying to physically see it from Patrick’s point of view. 

“Very carefully.” Patrick pipes icing along the top of the walls and feels David watching him intently as he gingerly puts a roof square on one side. He puts the icing tube down, one hand holding the roof up, and then carefully presses the gingerbread down, watching to make sure that the walls all stay upright. 

“You’re really good at this,” David comments, his head shaking. 

“Lots of little cousins, I guess. We used to have big family Christmases when I was younger." He and the other cousins his age were left to corral the kids hopped up on sugar and pancakes and Christmas excitement while their parents sat down with coffees. Eventually he’d find somewhere quiet to sit and text with his friends. 

“Sounds like my nightmare." 

“See, I’m surprised, because everything about you screams ‘kid-friendly’ and ‘will happily dress up as Santa Claus at six o’clock on Christmas morning.’” David pulls a face that says he's trying to be annoyed but can't hide his smile. 

“Okay, what’s wrong with wanting to sleep in on Christmas, wake up to a pile of very expensive and exclusive gifts, and then have a lot of sex and cake?” 

“Throw in a half dozen mimosas and I’m there,” Stevie says. 

“Okay, I think we’ve learned that lesson, thanks.” 

“Yeah.” 

Patrick’s still kind of stuck on the mental image of a naked blissed-out David, lounging on top of tousled silk sheets and surrounded by jewelry and plates of chocolate cake, and is having somewhat of a hard time pulling himself out of it. 

“Patrick. _Patrick_ ,” David is saying. 

“Hm?” 

“Do you think we can put on the rest of the roof now?” 

“Oh. Yes. Yeah.” 

He pipes the frosting and places the last gingerbread square, all too aware of David anxiously peering around the room at everyone else’s progress. 

“Okay, hurry, please,” David says finally, circling his hands with pointed fingers. “I refuse to lose to Ivan again.” 

“At least there are no carrots involved this year,” Stevie says, her tongue poking out as she carefully places gumdrops in a circle on the pan. 

“You hush.” 

“What happened with the carrots?” Patrick asks, not entirely sure he wants to know. 

“Let’s not get into it. Is the roof done yet?” 

“I think so.” Very very slowly, Patrick lets go of the roof, and they both stare at it. It’s a leap of faith, in a way. 

It holds. 

Patrick breathes. David takes a gum drop and places it on the ridge of the roof, and it still stands. 

“Well done, Patrick,” Stevie says. She takes the gum drop and pops it into her mouth, grinning at David’s betrayed expression. 

“Thank you, Stevie.” 

“I should have you prosecuted for tampering.” 

“What’s the penalty for gingerbread tampering?” 

“Disqualification,” David says darkly. 

“Ooh, we’re so scared,” Alexis says. She’s decorated their gingerbread tent with swirls of icing and Stevie’s made a little gum drop fire pit with red and orange M&M “fire” in the middle. She’s placing blue M&Ms into what looks like the shape of a pond. 

“Okay, can we focus, please?” David asks, tapping the back of Patrick’s hand with two fingers. “I want to vertically line the front with licorice, except of course for the windows. And use the marshmallows as bricks above the black siding. Gum drops will line the sidewalk and the garden along the side of the building will have candy canes instead of flowers.” 

“Got it. What do you need me to do?” 

“Can you do the marshmallows, please?” 

“So the really painstaking detailed part that covers most of the building.” 

David’s mouth opens and closes until he finally says, “But you’re so good at getting the glue to work.” 

“Now that’s a level of flattery I’ve never heard before.” 

“Is it working?” 

Patrick glances at him sidelong and David presses his lips together, his eyes dark with amusement. Patrick sighs. He never had a chance. 

“Fine. Give me more icing, though. I’m going to need another tube.” 

David nods and passes it over. 

“Okay, can you do the side, please, while I do the licorice on the front? Then we can switch and I’ll do the sidewalk and garden.” 

“Got it. What are you thinking of doing for the windows?” 

“Just icing? I know it’s lazy and easy and that’s not what my store is about, but nothing else seems right. I don’t know.” 

“We can leave them blank for now while you, uh, oscillate.” 

“Yes, let’s do that.” 

They work quickly, their elbows brushing occasionally, and Patrick loses himself to the rhythm of icing and placing marshmallows section by section until David announces that he’s done with the front, and that they need to switch now. Patrick gets up and they switch seats; the metal chair is still warm with David’s body heat and it doesn’t rock on three legs. He pulls the chair in so he can get at the front of the gingerbread store at the right angle, but his shoulder presses against David’s and they glance at each other before Patrick scooches away again. It’s not the time. He shakes out his hands and refocuses on “gluing” the rest of the marshmallow “bricks.” 

It seems like no time at all before Jocelyn is blowing the air horn again and then, as David keeps poking at their creation, filling in the windows with diagonal lines of icing, she shouts, “Stop! Leave it! Step away!” And then finally, “David!” 

“Fine!” David huffs. He drops the tube and stands up, his arms folded, and looks down at their gingerbread house next to Patrick. 

It does look really good, actually. Even if Patrick hadn’t known what it was supposed to be, he would’ve recognized it as the Apothecary. 

“Why couldn’t they have given us shredded coconut for some snow?” David mutters. 

“It looks fine, David.” 

“What did Ivan make?” David leans up and looks over everyone’s heads across the hall, one hand on Patrick's shoulder, trusting him for support. Feeling overly warm, Patrick squeezes his arm as Jocelyn approaches their table with the town council. He recognizes Bob and Roland in the group but the two women he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet yet. 

“Buongiorno, bambini!” the boldly-dressed woman says. David and Alexis wince. “What, pray tell, are these confectionary constructions?” 

“Okay, Moira, because you’re obviously biased, I will be stepping in to judge David and Alexis’s houses,” Jocelyn says. 

“Alright, Jocelyn,” Moira says. “Impartiality is today’s gracenote.” 

Patrick glances at David, who says under his breath, “My mother.” 

“Oh, it’s the FBI building in Dallas!” Roland says. “The one JFK was assassinated in front of.” 

“What? No!” 

“It’s the store, Roland,” the other woman says, rolling her eyes. 

“Thanks,” Patrick says, relieved for David that someone recognizes it. 

“It’s not _your_ store,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Oh, no, I --” 

“Whatever. It looks good, David.” 

“Thank you, Ronnie.” 

“The brickwork is very detailed,” Jocelyn says approvingly. Patrick doesn’t say anything this time, to avoid getting told off again, although his hands still hurt. He wonders if it's possible to get arthritis from marshmallow brickwork. 

Moira takes David’s arm. “Your modest little venture looks almost manageable in miniature like this.” 

David closes his eyes and says stiffly, “Thank you, Mother.” She pats his hand. Alexis takes a piece of red licorice left over in the bowl and snaps a piece off with her teeth as she watches them across the table. 

“It’s very nice, Dave,” Roland says in a surprisingly genuine compliment. “Although I would’ve liked something with a little more political commentary to it.” 

“I think it’s sweet,” Jocelyn says. “And what did you two make?” she asks Stevie and Alexis. 

“It’s a campsite?” Stevie says uncertainly. 

“We’ve got a little fireplace and some water and everything,” Alexis adds. 

“How nice, Alexis,” Moira says. “A charming saccharine attempt at a rustic encampment.” 

Jocelyn leads the troup of councillors off to the next table and David visibly releases his breath. 

“God, I almost actually wanted them to like it, there,” Stevie says, flapping the back of her shirt. “What a weird feeling.” 

“Okay, can we go now?” Alexis says impatiently. “Ted should be back from his owl trip and I wanted to have lunch waiting.” 

“You were going to make lunch?” David asks skeptically. 

“Ew, David. No. I was going to think about having Twyla do it.” 

“Whatever. Yeah. I’m ready to go,” Stevie says. “Unless you need me to stay?” 

“No, go,” David says, one hand on his hip. “Abandon me at the crucial moment before victory.” 

Stevie rolls her eyes. “If you need emergency support, Patrick, Twyla can usually whip up a Swiss Miss hot chocolate for him in less than five minutes. Tell her to add whipped cream if she can.” 

“Noted.” 

“I’m right here,” David says, annoyed. 

“Yeah. Alright, fond regards.” 

“Many thanks.” 

Up at the front of the room, Jocelyn blows the air horn yet again, and Stevie and Alexis make their exit. 

“In third place,” she announces, “we have Ray and Gwen with their gingerbread apartment building.” Patrick applauds as Ray and his partner stand up and wave. It looks like Ray’s built a replica of the apartment building he’s been trying to rent out for the past week. “In second place…. Drumroll, please, Kyle.” The kid manning the iPod plugged into the sound system looks blankly back at her. “Okay. In second place, Ivan and Cole, with their very impressive log cabin.” 

“Oh my god,” David says. He grips Patrick’s arm tightly. “Oh my _god_ , Ivan didn’t win.” 

“Do you think…?” 

David shakes his head and Patrick's right there with him, so tense with nerves that he has to clench his fists. 

“And finally, in first place, we have a very unique approach to the ‘gingerbread house’ concept, which I think is a really special commentary on what ‘home’ is for this person, and we all appreciated the creative use of candy to really bring a community fixture to life. 

"In first place, David Rose and Patrick Brewer!” 

“Oh my god,” David says again, his face blank with shock. Jocelyn holds up a trophy that has the shape of a Christmas tree where a sports figure would normally be. 

“David,” Patrick says, so happy for him he can't stop smiling. He _won_. “David, go!” 

He urges David forward with a hand on his back and David looks at him, startled. Patrick joins in the applause and nods at him. To his surprise, David tugs him forward with a hand on his wrist and pulls him to the front of the room. 

“Thank you very much,” David says to the council, still looking somewhat shell-shocked as he accepts the trophy. 

“This was good,” Roland says, sticking his thumbs in his waistband. “Maybe we should do this every weekend.” 

“No,” Jocelyn says, shaking her head, her smile unmoving. “No, Rollie.” 

“Alright, well. Congrats, Dave.” 

“Thank you,” David says again, looking down at the trophy in his hands and then up at Patrick and his eyes are wide, overwhelmed, and there’s a crack of vulnerability in his expression. Without thinking about it Patrick opens his arms and David steps in, hesitant at first until he hooks an arm over Patrick’s shoulder and then they’re chest-to-chest and Patrick wants to hold him tighter, to feel his heart beat against Patrick’s chest, but they’re in the town hall with all these people around…. 

Patrick pats David on the back and lets go, maybe clinging half a second too long, maybe brushing the palm of his hand down the back of David’s arm. 

“Congratulations, David.” 

David clears his throat and nods, his face soft. Patrick tilts his head towards the door as the rest of the contestants start gathering their coats and leaving, their chatter swelling. 

“Ready to go make your real store festive?” 

“Oh, god, I forgot.” 

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” 

“Fun,” David says flatly, following him to grab their coats and the tray with their gingerbread house. “I think we have different definitions of the word.” 

Patrick pushes open the town hall door and winces at the cold rain that the wind blows into his face. 

“Ugh,” David says. Well, it’s not exactly merry weather, but he pictures the Apothecary’s warm yellow light and the warmth of David’s laughter when it’s just them and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now. 

“Come on, we can make a run for it.” 

David hesitates, his fingers curled around his trophy like he’s scared of dropping it, and Patrick has the ridiculous urge to press a kiss to his temple. 

“Tell you what. You go find your lights, and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes with a hot chocolate.” David’s eyebrows raise at that and Patrick knows he’s gotten him. “Count of three?” 

“Fine.” 

“Three, two, one, _go_.” He takes David’s elbow and darts out into the rain. 

He trades the trophy for the gingerbread house with David at the Apothecary so that David has two hands to carry it and keeps going to the Café, which is packed for the lunch hour. He has to wait a minute and wave to get Twyla’s attention but he manages to get their hot chocolates with whipped cream and feels his face flush when she gives him a knowing smile. 

By the time he gets back to the Apothecary, the rain has turned sharp and the wind even colder, so when he gets inside and closes the door behind himself he closes his eyes and sighs at the warmth. 

“Well, that looked grueling,” David says. Patrick opens his eyes and smiles at him, holding out his drink and trophy, which David takes with a shy smile. David’s hair has been flattened a little by the rain but looks like he’s run his fingers through it to try to get it to stand up again; the disheveled look makes him seem softer, somehow. 

Patrick shucks his coat and hangs it up on the coat rack at the door, leaving it to drip on David’s new doormats. 

“How’s the hot chocolate?” he asks, rolling his shirtsleeves up. 

“Mm, delicious, thank you,” David says, watching Patrick’s movements. He feels a little self-conscious but David flicks his eyes up to Patrick’s face and his smile is warm. 

“So where are these lights?” 

David waves a hand at a cardboard box on the register counter next to the gingerbread Apothecary and Patrick goes to take a look. The lights are all white, which is not unexpected, but they’re not wound around anything or even in something resembling an intentional loop, just dumped in the box. He sighs, knowing exactly how this is going to go. 

“Okay. When you took these down last, did you just throw them in the box?” 

“I didn’t _throw_ them anywhere.” 

“So, yes.” 

“Why?” David comes to look over his shoulder. 

Patrick finds one end of the string of lights and pulls it. He gets about a foot before the string turns into a gordian knot of lights. 

“Okay, see, this is exactly why I didn’t want to do this in the first place.” 

“No, it’s fine. Here, look.” Patrick tests tugging at different sections until he gets a bit loose, and is able to work another few inches free of the clump. “Where do you want them to go? I’ll hang some hooks while you detangle.” 

“Must I?” David asks with a sigh, looking apprehensively into the box. “Fine. Around the windows, please. And along the top of the walls, if we can.” 

“Got it.” He pats David’s shoulder and goes to get the ladder from the back room. David has a whole box of removable adhesive hooks and Patrick’s hoping he won’t have to put any nails in his walls unnecessarily. While he’s in the back, he plugs his phone into David’s sound system and selects his Christmas playlist, starting with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. David looks up from his concentration and gives Patrick an unamused look, which is exactly what he was going for. 

“Any requests?” he calls. 

“I refuse to listen to the chipmunk one. I will _leave_.” 

“Not a fan?” Patrick asks, grinning as he comes back out into the main room with the ladder. 

“Stevie likes to torture me.” 

“The sign of a good friend.” 

David rolls his eyes. 

Patrick sets the ladder by the window and climbs up to stick the hooks up. He hums along to Bublé as he works and it’s really nice, being in the same space as David. 

He used to help his dad with putting the lights up at home, and a few times over the years he’s been roped into helping his grandparents put up their lights as well. He hadn’t really realized until now that working through Christmas would mean missing out on the rest of it, too. He’s not going to get to help his mom pick out their tree, or decorate it, or make reindeer sugar cookies for their neighbors. 

“Do your family have any holiday traditions?” he asks out loud. 

“Mm, we do light a menorah. And we used to have big Christmas parties,” David says. He’s laid out the string of lights on the table at the center of the store as he detangles it and it looks like he’s actually made progress. “You might have heard of them?” 

“I haven’t.” 

“Well, they were big. But since we came here we haven’t really done the holiday thing.” 

“Are you doing anything this year?” 

“I doubt it. My mom is doing a Christmas concert with the Jazzagals, so I’ll probably have to go to that, but otherwise I am very happy with my plan to join Stevie for her traditional twelve bottles of wine.” 

“Sounds like a good time,” Patrick says, climbing down. David looks up and as Patrick drops down the last few steps their eyes are at the same level. God, he wants to kiss him. 

“It is,” David says, his mouth curving. “I could probably wrangle you an invitation, if you’re interested.” 

“I could be,” Patrick hears himself say. 

“You’re not going home to your family?” 

“I mean -- I don’t know.” 

“It’s just that you said you had all those cousins, and everything, and it sounded like you actually like your family.” 

“I do.” Patrick moves the ladder and grabs a few more hooks. “But I just ended my engagement and then quit my job and took a seasonal position delivering mail and I don’t really feel like explaining those choices to everyone over and over.” 

David nods and tugs at a stretch of lights. “I’ve never been engaged, which might surprise you? But I can understand not wanting to face a room of people who don’t quite understand you.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course. I mean, in my case it was having to face my friends after a particularly embarrassing night out, or the time I had a bottle of cava on the beach in Barcelona and then woke up five hours later across town and had to piece together how I’d gotten there and where that hat had come from, but it’s comparable.” 

“Sure,” Patrick says, and he’s smiling despite himself. “Have your parents always been supportive of your choices?” 

“I’m not sure they paid much attention, to be honest,” David says, but his head is tilted thoughtfully without bitterness in his voice. “They’ve never been _un_ supportive.” 

“That must be nice.” 

“Mm. I think if they were we wouldn’t have survived two years in adjoining motel rooms.” 

“Yeah, that probably would be tricky.” 

“I can’t imagine someone not approving of you, though.” 

“What does that mean?” Patrick asks with a laugh. It’s not really something he’s given a lot of conscious thought to, but something about it catches at the bottom of his lungs and his breath waits for what David’s going to say next. 

“You know, you’re all… together. You wear sensible button-down shirts and jeans.” 

“I’m not really sure what that has to do with it. But, David, you own your own business.” 

“Yeah, that I had to put online in order to make the lease.” 

“That you chose to expand online to maximize your profit margin ahead of the holiday season, in a strategic move that most small businesses aren’t prepared or willing to make.” 

David gapes at him like he’s never thought of it like that before. It amazes Patrick that David remains so unaware of just how remarkable he is. 

“I suppose,” David says finally. “Wait, so you’re just not going home at all for Christmas?” 

“I don’t know. I think they're still expecting me to go back when I'm done with this.” 

“Well, you are welcome to join Stevie and me and our wine.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But if I’ve learned anything from our time here, it’s that if you open up to it, family goes deeper than the money you’re making.” 

Patrick looks down at him and David's smiling softly up at him, like he _knows_ him. Patrick thinks about that, about his mom hugging him tightly when he finally said the words _I'm gay,_ as he places the last hook and presses it to the wall. 

“Alright, I think I’m done,” David says. He’s standing with his arms folded, looking down at the string of lights winding neatly back and forth on the display table. Patrick lets go of the hook and climbs down the ladder to join him. 

“Nice job. Okay, want to hand it to me and I’ll hang it up?” 

David nods and goes to plug it in at the outlet in the corner, and Patrick goes back up the ladder to hang it on the hooks. Their fingers brush as David hands off the string, passing it between his hands to keep it untangled, and each time David makes eye contact with him he gives Patrick a little smile like they're sharing something, like they're building up to something. The music changes to something hopeful about Christmas lights. 

Patrick comes back down to move the ladder along and goes back up, admiring the reflection of the lights in the dark window. The rain outside has changed over to sleet, small flakes of snow mixed in with the cold rain, and he can feel the cold coming in through the window but in here it’s warm and there’s something about it that feels like home. 

When they’re done, Patrick climbs down the ladder for the last time and stands with his hands on his hips, admiring their work. 

“It looks pretty good, huh?” 

“I guess I can admit that it doesn’t look bad,” David says, his mouth quirking to the side when Patrick looks over at him. 

“Oh, high praise.” 

“It is.” 

“Hey, um. Thanks.” 

“For what?” 

“For -- today. This. It was nice.” 

“Wow,” David says, flicking his crinkle-eyed gaze to the side. “I’ve never been called that before.” 

“Oh, my mistake.” 

“No, no. No taking it back.” 

“Consider it a Christmas gift, then.” 

“Oh, I’ll expect something much bigger than a compliment,” David quips, his cheeks dimpling. 

“Good to know. So, big question: are we going to eat the gingerbread store now or wait until after Christmas?” 

David hesitates. “I don’t want to ruin it,” he says. 

“If you wait it’ll just turn stale and hard and you won’t be able to eat it at all.” 

“Okay, take a picture first, at least.” 

Patrick pulls out his phone and obediently takes a picture, which David scrutinizes before declaring it acceptable. 

“Wait, one with you in it, too.” 

“Why?” 

“You can put it up on your website. Trust me, people will love it.” 

“Ugh, fine.” David stands next to it with one artful eyebrow raised and Patrick smiles as he takes the picture. It’s perfect. He shows it to David; he shrugs, but sends it to himself. “Okay.” He hovers ringed fingers along the ridge of the roof and then pulls his hand back. “No, I can’t. You go first.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, do it.” 

He feels David watching as he pinches a piece of the roof, which David had laced with scalloped icing, and snaps it off. David seems to be waiting for him to take a bite but Patrick waves a hand at it to say _go ahead_ and David follows suit, flinching when his piece cracks off the roof. 

Patrick holds up his piece and taps it against David’s. “Cheers.” 

“Salud.” 

It’s only store-bought gingerbread, but David’s pleased little smile as he chews adds something to the spice and Patrick just wants more. It’s ridiculous but he wants to taste that smile and really needs to direct his attention somewhere else. 

“Did you always know you wanted to open your own store?” he asks, breaking off another piece of the roof. 

“Oh, no,” David says, pulling his eyebrows together. “I used to own an art gallery in New York and that’s, um, a funny story, actually. It seemed successful but it turned out that my parents actually paid for all of it.” 

“That was nice of them.” 

“No, you don’t -- they paid for _all_ of it. They helped pay the upfront costs and then kept paying off my patrons and my taxes and then when we lost everything I lost that, too.” 

“Oh.” 

“So I was just a little nervous to try to open a store on my own here.” 

“That makes sense.” 

“Does it?” 

“Sure. Starting your own business is a big deal, and losing your first business must have been awful. And I can, um, relate to being a little afraid of a leap into the unknown.” 

“A leap into the unknown,” David repeats, his mouth curling in a smile, and Patrick shakes his head, laughing. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“No, I didn’t realize you were a poet.” 

“David.” 

“Is that part of a haiku? A-leap-in-to-the-un-known,” David recites, counting off his fingers. He shows Patrick the seven fingers and Patrick is laughing too much to try to argue back. Without thinking about it, he grabs David’s fingers and holds them down while he tries to explain. 

“What I meant is that I guess I’m just not used to not having a plan.” He stands next to David, close enough to smell his cologne, and wants. David’s fingers curl around his. “It’s a new thing for me, not knowing what comes next.” 

“Do you have an idea of what you want now?” David asks, then looks at him, closer still, his brown eyes framed with dark lashes, his smiling mouth fading into something more serious. 

“I think I might,” Patrick says hoarsely. 

David’s lips part and his hand shifts in Patrick’s but doesn’t let go, doesn’t look away, his eyes wide and reflecting the glow of the Christmas lights with something like hope and that’s not possible. Patrick is such a mess; there’s no way David wants him, wants this, wants -- 

Without permission from his brain, Patrick closes the distance between them and kisses David, presses his desperate mouth to David’s soft lips, and it’s like a seventh sense awakening, his heart opening like a curio cabinet to something he hadn’t known was there, something amazing, something alight. 

After a stunned second they inhale and move as one, shifting their mouths, pressing closer, lips opening and David tastes of gingerbread and chocolate and peppermint still, somehow, and David’s hand is on his neck his fingers curling almost sweetly and Patrick leans into him, wraps an arm around his waist to hold him close, clenching their hands together between them. 

The thrill in his chest billows like steam and he grins into David’s mouth, nearly breaking the kiss with it, but David reclaims his mouth and he sucks at David’s lower lip and David shifts his leg between Patrick’s and he nearly moans; the pressure is just right and his hips rock down and David licks into his mouth, kissing him determinedly like he knows how things go from here, like he knows how to make Patrick feel _good_ \-- 

Patrick’s phone trills and he pulls away from David’s mouth with a too-loud wet sound and they stare at each other, wide-eyed, as his phone keeps ringing. 

“I should answer that,” he says faintly. David nods and lets go of him and, light-headed, Patrick answers his phone. He presses the back of his hand to his too-hot forehead. 

“Hello?” He just kissed David. He just _kissed David_. 

“Finally, you answer the phone.” 

“Hi, Mom.” He looks up and David’s doing something on his phone, his ears pink. Patrick tamps down the urge to slide a hand into David’s back pocket, to bury his nose into David’s shoulder. He clears his throat and maintains physical distance from David to try to avoid doing just that. “This isn’t actually a good --” 

“You answer the phone when your mother calls, Patrick. It’s been _days_. I thought you were _dead_.” 

“I know, I -- can I call you back?” 

“Are you coming home for Christmas? Grandma needs to know how many to cook for.” 

“I don’t know, Mom.” 

“Patrick, this is getting ridiculous. I don’t even know who you _are_ anymore! And you know your father and I are _fine_ with you being gay, we are proud of you and we mean that, but you quit your job and moved to the middle of nowhere for a temporary menial job that ends _on Christmas_ and you can’t even tell your own mother whether she can expect to see you --” 

“Mom, I’ve -- I’m working on the twenty-fifth. I told you that. And I’ve made friends here; it’s not like I’ll be _alone_ \--” 

“You’re spending Christmas in that town with people you’ve known for two weeks instead of with your own family?” 

“Mom, just -- hold on.” He pulls the phone from his ear and looks at David, who glances up from his phone and shrugs at him, his mouth twisting too quick to be casual. “I’m so sorry, David. I have to…” 

“Sure, of course.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Patrick smiles helplessly at him and then puts the phone to his ear, listening to his mom go on about what his grandma’s planning to make for Christmas dinner while he pulls on his coat. 

“Okay. Okay, Mom…” He steps out into the winter night, the snow swirling around him. 

Patrick paces around in the snow for a while, trying to talk his mother down, and when he finally hangs up with her he’s tired and cold and his feet are wet -- he still hasn’t bought any snow boots -- and he just wants to sit down somewhere warm, but his path back to Ray’s takes him by the darkened Apothecary just as David’s locking the door. 

“Hi,” Patrick says, blinking snowflakes out of his eyes. 

“Hi.” 

“Um, about earlier --” 

“It’s fine,” David interrupts, tugging his scarf closer to his throat. 

“It is?” 

“I know you’re just -- going through stuff. It’s fine. We can forget it happened.” 

Patrick’s stomach drops and the ice in his feet spreads throughout his body, freezing vein by vein. 

“What if I don’t want to forget about it?” he asks, dry-mouthed. David presses a smile back at him that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“You don’t know that.” 

He looks into David’s eyes and there’s hesitance, like David’s waiting for Patrick to make some kind of decision, and he wants to make this better but if David’s not going to make this leap then how can _he_ when that was his first kiss with a guy and his mind is still reeling…? 

“David, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits finally, squeezing his phone in his pocket; it’s unyielding and digs into the soft flesh by his thumb and keeps him present and grounded. “I haven’t, um, dated anyone since Rachel and I broke up, and this is all really new to me.” 

The inscrutable expression on David’s face softens. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m expecting some packages.” 

“Are we okay?” 

“Of course.” David squeezes his shoulder briefly and his eyes crinkle and Patrick exhales with relief. 

“Okay. Good night, David.” 

“Good night, Patrick.” 

Patrick watches him walk down the street, white flakes of snow sticking to his dark shoulders and hair, until he disappears into the night. 


	3. Week Three

### Saturday, December 12th

There are only two weeks left before he won’t see David six days a week anymore. He lays awake thinking about it at night, past the time when he should be asleep in order to wake up with something approaching the necessary amount of rest to function. 

He thinks about their kiss and the almost-kisses that led up to it, and the look on David’s face as he leaned in: something like hope, and desire, and it’s not like Patrick hasn’t seen a version of that before on a partner but the difference this time is that it’s _David_ , and it's the same but magnified in Patrick. 

He’s been wanted, but he’s never really been the one wanting. He’s never before felt the desperate pull, the thrill of _yes yes yes_ , the wild hope, the joy so big and sudden it almost balls into a giddy laugh. 

He still doesn’t know what exactly it is that he and David are doing. They haven't talked about it and they haven't kissed again but he’s been spending more time at the Apothecary in the mornings just to be around David and his stomach flutters with anticipation even days after the kiss when he piles into his trunk a small stack of packages addressed to David from vendors and what he’s guessing are Etsy sellers. 

Maybe he’ll work up the courage to ask David out today. A real dinner date, just him and David. Maybe even with, like, a candle in the center of the table, and David smiling at him when he orders the wine, and splitting a basket of breadsticks and letting David eat most of it, and getting to kiss him again at the end of it even if David has garlic breath. It'll be heaven. 

There’s snow in the forecast which will probably slow him down on his route, but usually he can fit fifteen or twenty minutes in to just talk with David, to watch him open his packages and react to whatever it is that he’s ordered. 

The best so far was a luxury cashmere sweater that David had been so excited to get, triumphant in what a bargain it had been, only to realize when he opened it that he’d accidentally bought a child’s size. He’d been horrified at first and then ranted for an entire twenty minutes about imprecise eBay listings and it had been the best part of Patrick’s day. 

So with more of David’s packages to look forward to, before his coffee’s really hit him, he’s a little unfocused when he walks into the vet’s office for his first stop of the day, already looking forward to sleeping in on his day off tomorrow and maybe even going on a real date with David. God, he’s going to need to dig out his dinner jacket. He wonders if Ray has an iron. 

“Patrick!” Ted says happily and Patrick wonders, not for the first time, whether Ted mainlines coffee first thing in the morning, or if he’s just naturally like this. “How are things?” 

“Things are good, thanks, Ted.” He made out with David last weekend and he’s been entirely unable to think about anything else all week. He and David don’t stop smiling around each other, even when Patrick is only dropping off his mail. He keeps the memory of their kiss tucked behind his sternum and he _smiles_ whenever he remembers the feeling of David in his arms, the insistent pressure of David’s lips on his, and can’t make himself stop. He's never been this dreamy before; does everyone feel like this? 

“Hey, you didn’t make plans for tomorrow, right?” Ted asks. “That’s your day off?” 

“It is,” Patrick says, his brain only processing part of that sentence. 

“Awesome! I’ll come pick you up at seven, is that okay?” 

“Hm, what?” 

“For the owl tagging.” Ted beams at him. Patrick’s brain races to catch up, feeling like he’s made a big mistake without noticing. “It’ll be a long day but so worth it.” 

“Oh.” 

“You do still want to come, right?” Ted asks, and no, he would really prefer not to have to go sit in a snowy field for hours on his only day off, but Ted’s face falls and his eyes grow large and blue and Patrick can’t come up with anything else to say. 

“Yeah, sure, of course.” 

“Great! It’ll be fun, I promise. Dress warm,” he adds with a chuckle. Patrick laughs weakly. 

The door opens behind Patrick and Alexis swoops in, decked out in a fur coat and hat and a disgruntled expression. 

“Alexis! You’re early,” Ted says, turning his beam back up to full force. 

“Yeah, David was up and doing something on the laptop with the glare right in my eyes, so I figured I’d just come to work early and hang out with you,” she says, looking between Ted and Patrick. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“No, that’s great! About you being here, not about David,” Ted adds quickly. “We were just talking about Patrick coming with me to go owl tagging tomorrow.” 

“Oh, you poor thing.” 

“Come on, Alexis, it’s fun.” 

“Okay, Patrick, take it from someone who talked to someone who went last year: wear three pairs of socks. And leggings under your pants. And a pair of gloves _under_ your mittens.” 

“Okay, it’s not _that_ bad,” Ted says. 

“His last assistant Ben went and nearly got frostbite.” 

“Oh, come on, that’s not true.” 

Alexis pouts and nods at Patrick. 

Great. 

It does start snowing later that morning and he _still_ doesn’t have waterproof boots, so his feet are cold when he finally stomps into the Apothecary with David’s packages balanced in his arms. 

“Finally,” David says, looking up from the candles he’s shelving, his smile relieved like he's been waiting for Patrick. “Oh, is it snowing?” 

“Just a little,” Patrick says wryly. Bob’s nephew is plowing, but the snow just keeps falling and there’s no way to keep up with it. Thank god he got Bob to put on his new winter tires. 

“Where’s my coffee?” 

“Thank you, Patrick, for bringing me my massive amounts of packages in the middle of a snowstorm,” Patrick says as he stands still on the door mats to keep from tracking slush all over David’s floors. 

“Right, sorry,” David says, hurrying over to take the boxes from him. “I, um. I might have gotten carried away with my winter closet refresh shopping.” 

“So none of these are actually for your store?” 

“Well, some of them are, obviously,” David says with a flutter of his hand. 

“Obviously.” 

“I didn’t want to get them delivered to the motel for Stevie to open them and offer her commentary. The last thing I need is another round of _How many polar bears died to make that sweater?_ The answer is _none_ , thank you very much. So no coffee?” 

“David,” Patrick says, trying to be matter-of-fact and absolutely failing when faced with David’s pleased little smile, “I am an hour behind on my route because of the snow.” 

“Mhm. Okay. I’ll just… go get my own coffee, then.” 

“That sounds like a good idea, especially considering that I still have another hour’s worth of deliveries to make before I can clock out.” 

“Or,” David says, waving a ringed hand in an approximation of a shrug, “We could both get coffees? If you’re already late, it’s not like another fifteen minutes will make a difference.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works, David, but that explains a lot about your sense of time.” 

“Excuse me,” David says, a smile pulling at his mouth. “That sounds almost like a dig.” 

“Almost?” 

“Rude. And I actually was late opening this morning because I was doing you a favor.” 

“What favor?” 

David reaches under the counter and pulls out a stack of web page print-outs with… boots on them? 

“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s researching clothing.” 

“Just as long as the sizing is clearly marked.” 

David rolls his eyes. “That was not my fault, thank you. The seller should assume that adult sizing is the default and mark it _clearly_ otherwise.” 

“Uh huh. So what are these?” 

“Winter boots for you. So you don’t have to keep going around with wet and cold feet.” 

“David…” Overwhelmed, he really doesn’t know what to say; he pictures David getting up early, unable to sleep, and doing all this research for him, just because. _Because...?_ a quiet, hopeful voice in his head prods. 

David shifts his shoulders and his mouth tilts uncertain. “Just, I thought it might help. If you don’t want them, you don’t have to order any.” 

Patrick rifles through them, the dotted edges catching on each other. There’s a black line across each page in the same spot. “How old is your printer?” 

“Okay, it’s the motel’s printer and I keep telling Stevie to upgrade but she insists that it works fine. I’m pretty sure she’s just too lazy to look for a replacement.” 

“I haven’t seen a dot matrix printer in, like, twenty years.” 

“Take that up with her," David says, and his flustered smile turns back to uncertain. "So what do you think?” 

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you, David.” 

“These are the ones most of the reviews recommended,” David says, tugging at the top print-out in Patrick's hands. “The black Columbia boots. The top reviewer said that he’s worn them for several winters and they’re still fully waterproof and warm, which sounded like what you want. I mean, he didn’t say what he wears them _for_ , so I can’t promise that they’ll stand up to the rigors of postal service delivery person duties, but it’s a start, at least. And they’re on sale, which I’ve come to learn is a blessing that shouldn’t be overlooked.” 

“That sounds great, David,” Patrick says earnestly, and David looks relieved to have his rambling cut off. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” David says softly, then clears his throat. “Um. So, with shipping and everything they might not get here for another week or two, but I figured if you’re staying, they might still be useful for the rest of the winter.” 

“Oh.” 

“Unless you’re planning more short-term generally and want to order from Amazon Prime. Alexis and I splurged on a subscription this year, even though they’re evil and as a small business I consider them my direct competitor and nemesis. But it's good for two-day shipping if waiting five to ten business days doesn’t work for you.” 

Patrick fingers one of the edge strips that’s started to peel off and David bites his lip. 

“It would be nice to have them sooner rather than later,” Patrick says -- he’s started to worry that having chronically cold feet is going to do serious damage -- and David’s eyebrows fall in disappointment. “I’ll think about it,” he amends, a little surprised that David feels that strongly about it, but then David feels strongly about a lot of things. ( _Because...?_ the voice asks again.) 

“Good. Now, about that coffee,” David says hopefully. Patrick shakes his head and grins. 

“David, I’m sorry, it’s not happening today unless you have a time machine in one of these boxes.” 

David laughs a little and they stare at each other for a long moment, the soft jazz a soundtrack to the yearning that tugs at Patrick’s stomach. 

David always seems to know exactly who he is and what he wants and it’s so goddamn attractive but usually _Patrick_ is the one who’s confident, the one who has a plan. He needs to figure this out; he needs to shake his brain until the dust settles right. Fair-honest-scared-do something; he doesn't feel ready to leave Schitt's Creek in two weeks. He can't leave yet. 

He wants to kiss David again so much he aches with it but he doesn't want to ruin this, the wonderful friendship they have. David is a light in his life, the glowing Apothecary windows in the cold dead of winter; how could he risk this? 

Sometimes when they're looking at each other, David's smile softens and his eyes warm and it's like he's just waiting for Patrick. Sometimes when Patrick teases him, he drops his head back and laughs brightly and Patrick likes him so ferociously it's almost too big to contain. 

After he clocks out he heads home, obsessing a little about David’s smile and the way makes him feel _addicted_ like he would be happiest trying to draw it out as often as possible, but Ray corrals him into helping him make holiday cookies for his many clients by cornering him as soon as he walks in the door. 

“Ready to earn your keep, Patrick?” Ray asks, happily wiping his flour-powdered hands on his apron, which has an image of Ray photoshopped undersea next to colorful fish and coral on it. 

“What’s that, now?” 

“Sugar cookies! I’ve found that my clients really appreciate the personal touch around the holidays. I started on the dough last night and it’s all chilled and ready -- you can help me roll it out!” 

“Oh right,” Patrick says faintly. “I did promise to help you with that. Just let me get changed first.” 

“Sure thing. Don’t take too long though -- I only have two cookie cutters and the reindeer antlers make that one nearly impossible to use.” 

Patrick makes a quick getaway to his room and changes into a spare shirt and pants with a looser waistband. There’s a text on his phone from David: _Are you free tomorrow?_

He sighs and regretfully replies, _I told Ted I’d do something with him. Why?_

_Oh my god, are you going owl hunting? You poor thing._

_I don’t think we’re hunting the owls, but I was severely under-caffeinated when I agreed to it this morning._

_Maybe if you’d stopped and gotten us coffee you wouldn’t have agreed to spend your day off freezing to death._

_You know it’s not part of my job to buy you coffee every day, right?_

_Too late. It’s part of my routine now. When you leave I’m going to go into caffeine withdrawal so bad I’ll be bedridden for days._

_When I leave?_

_It’ll be a rough end to the year. Maybe I’ll convince Stevie to extend our twelve bottles of wine schedule through New Year’s._

“Patrick!” Ray calls. “I remembered wrong. It’s not a reindeer cookie cutter, it’s a snowflake! Which means lots more delicate little cut-outs.” 

_Sorry, I have to go. I’ll see you Monday. (Coffee status undetermined.)_

_You are the worst._

Patrick grins down at his phone. Maybe he’ll ask Twyla to add sprinkles to David’s mocha again and take a cue from Stevie and put on overly cheerful Christmas music. 

When he gets to the kitchen Ray has already put out the dough, flour, and a rolling pin on the counter and is working at the kitchen table. It looks like he’s simultaneously putting together gift baskets and mixing colored royal icing. 

“Is everything okay?” Ray asks. He has flour on his nose. 

“Yeah, sorry, just talking to David.” 

“Oh, he’s a nice boy. Had a little trouble getting his corporation papers done, but we got there in the end.” 

Patrick sprinkles flour on the countertop and drops the ball of cookie dough on top. The rolling pin is nice and heavy and it actually feels oddly satisfying rolling out the dough and slowly but surely pressing it down flat. 

“Did you know that he’s starting doing business online? It seems like it’s really taking off.” 

“Oh, yes, his mother did mention that when I saw her last. I really should run the interstate sales tax law by him again, because I am not so sure that he grasped it the first time.” 

“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Patrick says. He keeps rolling the dough until it’s just a few millimeters thick and even all around. “Which shapes did you want?” 

“The snowflakes and the stars, please, Patrick.” 

“Ah.” The stainless steel snowflake cookie cutter does have lots of little pieces to it that Patrick can tell are going to have to be poked out one by one with a knife. 

Ray has a classic holiday music station playing on the radio, and they listen to Judy Garland warble about having a merry little Christmas in a nice quiet hush until it seems that Ray can’t bear it anymore. 

“So, Patrick, tell me: have you given any more thought to what you want to do after Christmas? I could use a hand with my small-business consulting business, if you’re interested.” 

“I am very interested,” Patrick says, and he realizes that he means it. He _wants_ to stay in Schitt’s Creek. He wants to see what he can build here, in this community of people like Ray and David and Stevie and Ted and Twyla; he wants to see what he and David can grow. 

“Excellent! Now, to be honest, we don’t have a _lot_ of retail businesses starting in a calendar year in a small town, so we might have to branch out to Elmdale and Thornbridge to get enough clients. And you could help me out with my real estate business! Oh, this is going to work out just fine, I think. Are you sure you’re staying in town?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Ray says, beaming. His hand gesture sends a spray of icing across the floor. “Maybe after the holiday you can have a word with David about making sure his online business is on the up-and-up. I’d hate to have him face tax penalties. You know, because of how his family lost everything. You know, due to his father’s old business manager not paying any taxes and then running off to the Caymans.” 

“Yeah, that would do it,” Patrick says faintly. 

“So you’re staying. Oh, how nice.” 

“Is that okay?” 

“Yes, of course! You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. It’s really very pleasant, having a roommate. I can never keep one around for very long.” 

“That’s a shame. I’ve only ever lived with college buddies and then my ex, so this is a little new to me, too.” 

“Well, you’re a wonderful roommate.” 

“Thank you, Ray.” 

Patrick presses the snowflake onto the dough and rocks it a little to make sure it cuts all the way around, then lifts out the cutter and with it the cut-out dough. Sure enough, the little pieces of dough are still stuck in the cutter, and he uses a dinner knife to poke them out before laying the snowflake dough onto the cookie sheet. One down, several dozen to go. Like when he’s sorting the mail for his route first thing in the morning, it’s nice to have something to do with his hands that frees up his mind to work through things. 

“Hey, Ray?” 

“Yes, Patrick.” 

He presses and lifts another cut-out. “What if I were to put together a proposal to work more in-depth with David’s business?” 

“How so?” Ray stirs a bowl of green frosting, lifts a spoonful, and watches it drip down before adding two more drops of food coloring. 

“Well, he might need a little more help with his business, both the retail storefront and the online portion. And I’d be happy to put together some grant proposals that I think he’d be eligible for.” 

“But that would mean working with David directly, wouldn’t it?” Ray fluffs the tissue paper in one of the baskets. 

“Yeah, I, um, haven’t brought it up with David yet. But would that be alright with you?” 

“Of course, Patrick,” Ray says, surprised. “I want you to be happy. I’ll be disappointed to not get to work with you every day, of course, but as we’re roommates, it’s not like I won’t see you.” 

“Right. Wow. Okay, yeah. Do you think the Apothecary can generate enough profit to support two incomes?” 

“I think there’s a very good chance that you two can grow it just as well as I’ve grown mine,” Ray says proudly, organizing the baskets into two rows of six. “Although, between you and me, you might want to convince David to market it a little better. I did think it was a pharmacy for several months, and then I thought he was a soapmaker. The council was approached by several concerned citizens about his qualifications to dispense controlled substances.” 

Patrick laughs, picturing Ray trying to get over-the-counter painkillers from David. “He does sell soap, so that’s something, I guess.” 

“You see? Everything will work out.” 

“Thanks, Ray. Hey, how much dough would you say we have? Is there enough for a few extra cookies?” 

“Oh, I’m sure I made too much. Are you thinking of giving some to someone special?” Ray asks, blinking heavily in what might be an attempt at a wink. Patrick’s face goes warm and he tries to casually keep cutting out cookie shapes. 

“Oh, um, I just thought that David might like some.” 

Ray triumphantly pulls out another basket from somewhere under the table and some more tissue paper. “Then I will get started on another basket.” 

### Sunday, December 13th

Before he leaves the house, he stops by the kitchen for the coffee he’s now wholly dependent on and checks on the baskets of cookies. The cookies themselves are tied up in cellophane bags with little candy canes on them, nestled in silver tissue paper in each basket. There are the dozen baskets that Ray put together for his clients and another one with a little gift tag that says _David Rose_ on it in the neatest handwriting that Patrick could manage. He'd debated between a Frosty the Snowman tag and one with a simple black border, and while David's face at the Frosty one would've been hilarious, the other tag reminds him of David. He fluffs the tissue paper and shifts it so that the points are symmetrical. He thinks David will approve. 

He has a text on his phone that David must have sent after Patrick went to bed last night: _Have fun owl hunting. Don’t freeze to death. And don’t let Ted freeze, either; Alexis would be hysterical and I do not have the energy._ And then, received five minutes later: _That sounded meaner than I meant it. I’m just busy with the store and the Ted-and-Alexis saga was exhausting enough the first time around. Have you picked a pair of boots yet?_

_Not yet,_ he texts back, knowing that David won't see it for several hours. _I'm leaving something for you in the motel's mailbox. Happy Hanukkah, David. (If they taste off, blame Ray.)_

“Thanks so much for doing this with me,” Ted says when they’re on the road. Ted’s car’s heat is still in the process of kicking in and Patrick can still sort of see his breath. He breathes into his cupped hands to try to warm them. 

“Well, I’m interested to see how this works,” Patrick says, only half lying. “You made it sound fascinating.” 

“Oh, it is! See, there was a big lemming population boom over the summer, so we would expect given previous studies that there would be a big snowy owl boom this winter. More food means more brood, right? But there was also a lot of really severe weather this year, do you remember?” 

“Yeah, the drainage systems in Toronto backed up during the tropical storms this summer. It was a mess.” 

“Right! So the question is, does severe weather like that intercede on the population growth of the snowy owls in a year when we’d expect at least as many as last year, if not more? So I’m working with Project Snowstorm to tag and track snowy owls in this area.” 

“That does sound interesting.” 

“Thanks, bud! It would for sure add some context to the implications of climate change on the whole ecosystem.” 

“You’re really passionate about this, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Ted says, blushing cutely. “Usually I bring my assistant on trips like these so they can get some experience, but as you can maybe guess, Alexis is not actually all that interested in animals. Or sitting out in the cold.” 

“Uh huh. So where are we going?” 

“There’s a big field just outside of town that they’ve nested in before. They like big open spaces like that.” 

"Have you seen them there before?" 

"Oh, yeah! I've actually traveled around quite a bit for the project. More than once I've ended up in an abandoned airfield." 

After a while, Ted turns off the road onto a dirt track and slowly bumps the car along through the trees, which soon give way to an empty field so big and snowy that Patrick can’t quite tell how big it is; the unblemished flat whiteness goes on and on until, at some point, there’s another dark treeline. 

Ted parks in the open mouth of the trees and climbs out of the car, hauling up the trunk door to grab equipment. Patrick follows more slowly, reluctantly getting out of the somewhat warm car into the cold winter morning. 

The sun is cresting over the far trees, sending a mild orange glow skittering across the glittering expanse of snow. 

“Wow.” 

“Nice, right? Those owls really know how to pick a real estate location.” 

“Sure do.” 

“Here, grab this.” Ted hands Patrick something that looks like a collapsible hockey net, which he slings over his shoulder. Ted takes a big backpack and the pigeon carrier and then thunks the trunk shut. “Ready?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Their boots rumble-crunch over the unpacked snow out into the middle of the field. Ted sets down his bags at some point that seems predetermined but looks like every other spot in the field and Patrick drops the net into the snow. Around them everything is hushed by the blanket of snow and he squints against the rising sun. 

“So what we’re doing is setting up the trap, and then one of these guys will be the bait. But don’t worry; I have leather jackets to keep them safe. I’ve got the ethics _corvid_.” Ted laughs and Patrick joins in weakly. “Not that the owls are corvids. They’re strigidae, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

Ted shows him out to set up the net and then when he’s satisfied he carefully opens the pigeon carrier and has Patrick hand him the little leather piece for the pigeon to wear while it’s in the net. Now that they’re out in the field, Patrick can tell that the snow isn’t a perfectly smooth surface after all: there are tracks in sets of four, like a rabbit hopping; tracks made by something bigger with cloven hooves, like deer; and tracks made by something tiny, like mice, that barely brush the top layer of snow. They’re surrounded by signs of life even in the darkest part of the year. 

“Here you go, little guy,” Ted says as he places the pigeon in the net. “So when the owl comes down to grab him, she’ll be caught harmlessly in the net, and then we can tag her with a band in case she gets caught again and hook this thing on her like a backpack.” He pulls a device a little smaller than a cell phone with long loops attached to it out of his bag and shows it to Patrick. “Then we can release her and track the GPS transmitter to see where she travels, how long she stays in one spot, that kind of thing.” Ted checks the net setup, maybe to make sure that the birds won’t be able to get out, and then packs his bags up again, apparently unconcerned about the snow sticking to his knees when he gets up. “We’re okay to wait in the car, I think. I brought binoculars and a thermos.” 

“Oh, good,” Patrick says, relieved. Even with the sun coming up it is brutally cold with the wind blowing directly across the open field. Ted kicks snow over their tracks as they walk back towards the car; it doesn’t make it look as if nothing had ever touched the snow, but evens out the surface to somewhat hide their boot prints that sink several inches deep. 

The car is warmer, at first, but Ted doesn’t keep it running as they wait, which makes financial and environmental sense even if it means that Patrick is freezing nearly from the start. Ted passes over his stainless steel thermos and a green tin mug, which he accepts gratefully. In a move that seems fitting for Ted, it turns out that the thermos has hot chocolate instead of coffee. 

“Cheers,” Ted says, clinking their mugs together in the silence. 

“Yeah, cheers.” Patrick takes a sip and feels oddly transported to the time he and his dad had tried to go fishing. They’d gotten to the lake, thrown out their lines, and after an hour of halting attempts at conversation made the mutual decision to go to a beer garden instead. There’d been a Raptors game on and the whole place was hyped, and it had been a good day, in the end. This is different, of course, but also… it would help if they could find a common ground. Something they’re both comfortable with. 

“So how are you liking Schitt’s Creek?” Ted asks, breaking the ice before Patrick can think of something. 

“It’s good. Great, even.” 

“Good.” 

“After my seasonal route ends I’m thinking about helping out Ray or, um, David, maybe.” 

“Oh, that would be great!” 

“You think so?” 

Ted wrinkles his forehead as he nods. “Yeah, totally. I don’t know what was going on with his online store and shipping and everything, but Alexis says that it seems like he’s much less freaked out than he was.” 

“Oh?” He tries not to let himself read anything into that. 

“Not that he was struggling,” Ted says quickly. “I mean, yeah, he was struggling. But he’s done a great job with the store already and Alexis is, obviously, really proud of him.” 

“You and Alexis seem pretty close.” 

“Yeah, well. We used to be engaged.” 

“And you work together now. How is that?” 

“Well, I won’t lie; it can be tricky. But I think we do a pretty good job at maintaining professionalism.” 

“Is that hard?” 

“Are you looking for advice?” 

Patrick shakes his head and pours himself more hot chocolate. 

“Are you sure?” Ted asks, amused. 

“Okay, I don’t want to spread this around before I talk to David first, but I was thinking about maybe offering to help him out with the Apothecary full-time. But what if…” 

“What if things between you don’t work out and then you’re stuck?” 

“It sounds so juvenile, but I just like him so _much_ and I think we could be great together, but I don't want to be the one to mess things up for him. I mean, I don’t even know if he _wants_ to try dating, so maybe it’s a moot point, but I just keep going in circles and… God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you.” 

“No, I get it,” Ted says. “Wait, is that --” He holds up his binoculars and peers out the windshield into the field. “Nah, just a rabbit.” 

“Can I see?” 

Ted hands him the binoculars and Patrick looks through them, the landscape distorted through the lenses; he can only see a tiny window at a time and can’t even really tell where he’s looking. 

“Over there,” Ted says, gently moving the binoculars a little up and to the left, and there it is: a little grey rabbit sniffing at long pieces of grass poking out through the snow. 

“Wow.” 

“Cool, right?” 

“He won’t set off the trap?” 

“Nah, he’ll probably just nibble at some grass and keep his distance. The only thing is if an owl goes for him instead of the trap, but that’s nature for you. Wild and uncontrollable. Kind of like the nature of love.” 

“Ouch,” Patrick says with a wince. Ted cringes. 

“Yeah, I knew it was bad as soon as I said it. I’m not wrong, though.” 

“So when are you going to tell Alexis that you still love her?” 

“Wait, no, I meant you.” 

Patrick hands the binoculars back to Ted and gives him a disbelieving look. 

“Okay, maybe I still have feelings for her. She’s just… amazing, and beautiful, and smart in her own way, and so much fun. And her hair smells like coconuts.” 

“So…?” 

“So we’ve already been engaged and she ended it. Twice. But we know each other so much better now than we did then, and we’ve both grown as people. And yeah, fine, maybe it is hard to work with her every day and also have feelings for her.” 

Patrick rubs his hands together and squints out against the brightness of the sun’s glare off the snow. 

“Here’s what I think,” he says slowly, glancing over at Ted to make sure that he’s okay with hearing this. Ted nods encouragingly. “I think that you don’t know how she feels now, but if you don’t tell her how you feel, you’ll never know. As long as you make sure that she knows that whatever her answer is won’t affect her job --” Ted nods again -- “if you love her, she should know. And then she can make an informed decision.” 

“And then one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.” 

“What?” 

“Mr. Darcy?” Patrick shakes his head. “Pride and Prejudice.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Oh, man,” Ted says, bringing up the binoculars again. “Don’t tell David you haven’t seen it unless you’re ready to sit through two hours of a British period piece. I have made that mistake.” 

“Does that mean you’re not going to tell her?” 

“Are you going to tell David?” 

“I don’t… know. I just. I want to be sure before I risk that, you know? Before I put that on him. I don’t want to guilt him into dating me out of, like, pity, or whatever.” 

“Alexis told me you were engaged to a woman before. Is this your first time, um, with a man?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I am unfortunately straight, but I can see how that might make things a little more complicated.” 

“I mean, David doesn’t need this, right? We’re friends and things are good as friends and why would I make that more complicated just because I might have feelings for him, with the added pressure of being ‘the first?’” 

“Because you’re a human person and you deserve love and the only way to have love is to be honest with yourself?” 

“Way to soft-pedal it, Ted.” 

Ted shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you how you feel, and obviously I don’t have a great track record in this department, but I think you should take your own advice. And maybe have a little faith.” 

Patrick sits back in his seat and rubs a gloved hand across his mouth. “Faith,” he repeats. 

“Yeah, faith in yourself. You’re not going to intentionally hurt David. We haven’t known each other for very long, but just by the fact that you’re worrying about it this much I can tell that you wouldn’t. And faith in your friendship, that it can withstand hurt feelings if he doesn’t feel the same way. And faith in love, I guess. I don’t know. Isn’t that what this time of year is all about?” 

“I’ve never really been that kind of person. I like having a plan and sticking to it and making it happen.” 

“And how’s that working out for you now?” 

Patrick glances over at Ted, blinking away the shadows of the sun-glare out of his eyes, and Ted smiles gently. 

“Have a little faith, is all I’m saying. You’ll figure it out.” 

Something flutters out of the corner of Patrick’s eye and he leans forward to squint at it: wide white wings against the bright blue sky. 

“Hey, Ted, is that --” 

Ted fumbles the binoculars as he brings them up to his eyes and his white-toothed grin is blinding. 

“Yes! Oh my gosh, how beautiful is she?” 

The owl glides closer to the car and Patrick can make out the black specks on her head and on the tips of her wings as she floats with a smooth grace down to earth. 

“Did you know that they like wide, flat areas like this because they like to see in all directions? They’ll sit on the ground and watch all around them for prey and they actually have a wide range of food sources, even though there’s the misconception that they’re starving.” 

“Am I the owl in this scenario or is David?” 

Ted shrugs. “He’s a tough nut to crack, but you seem like someone who’s good with a nutcracker.” 

“Oh, that was bad.” 

“Right?” Ted says happily. “Come on, let’s go meet our new friend.” 

Patrick shakes his head but he’s smiling as he follows him out into the cold. 


	4. Week Four

### Monday, December 21st

He goes a whole week without working up the courage to tell David anything. He buys David coffee and teases him about his packages and chats with him about everything and nothing and leaves with his outgoing packages without having told him, still, and when he drops back into his car he tells himself that he has time. He has almost a week left of seeing David every day before he has to figure something out. He has time. 

This is his last Monday working, though. Christmas is on Friday and it feels like it’s come up so suddenly, the benchmark the whole month has been leading up to. 

“I feel like I just started yesterday,” he tells Rania, who snorts. 

“I feel like you’ve been here for a year,” she says. He throws a packing peanut in her direction. “Kidding. It’ll be good to have Devon back again, but I’ll miss having you around, Brewer.” 

“Thanks, Rania.” 

She even helps him pack his car with all of the holiday deliveries and he very nearly hugs her. 

“You’ve still got almost a week left, kid,” she says, waving him off, although her eyes look suspiciously wet. 

Almost a week. 

Maybe next Monday after the holiday’s over he’ll stop by the Apothecary and talk to David about working together. It would give him the weekend to put together a proposal and rehearse what he’s going to say, and then eventually they’ll get closer and their relationship will evolve naturally. That would be the smartest way forward, probably. The most logical. 

He drops off a stack of holiday cards and a package that appears to contain a sink plunger at the Schitts’ and turns down Roland’s offer of a piece of fruitcake. Whether it’s the same one that Jocelyn’s sister mailed over three weeks ago or a new one, he knows it’s not a good idea. 

He picks up their coffees from the café and asks Twyla to add the usual red and green sprinkles on David’s, which David doesn’t ask for or comment on but he’ll pop off the lid and pull a smile to the side and it’s one of the most endearing things Patrick has ever seen. 

And then he’s walking up to the Apothecary door with a huge stack of packages for David in his arms with their coffees in one hand and the mail under his elbow and David hurries over to help him with the door. 

“Hey,” Patrick says. David takes the coffees from him and then helps him set down the packages. 

“Hi. Thanks for these, by the way. I have a whole stack for you to take back to the post office.” 

“Good sales, then?” 

“I think so,” David says cautiously, but his eyes light up and Patrick is just so proud of him. “Also, and I say this very rarely, but you were right: people seem to like the gingerbread house photo. I’ve been sharing updates on it on the store’s instagram feed.” 

“Oh, nice,” Patrick says. David’s borrowed one of Twyla’s small plastic display cases for it for sanitary reasons, but he lets Patrick take a piece whenever he stops by. 

“Wait!” 

Patrick pauses, one hand reaching to break off a piece of gingerbread. 

“Smile?” David holds up his phone and raises his eyebrows pleadingly. 

“Oh, David, I don’t know.” 

“Look, you helped. You did all those bricks and you put the walls up and you should have a photo with it, too. People are asking who my partner was ever since I accidentally admitted to having one in a reply to a comment, which is just further proof that social media is a scourge on our private lives.” 

“But a necessary evil?” 

“So it would seem. Smile, please?” 

Patrick sighs and smiles. 

“Thank you. So, what do you think about this: I’ve ordered a bunch of little ornaments that have my logo on them, and I’m going to include them in the rest of the holiday shipments. I advertised it on the website and it really generated a lot of orders so I think I might’ve actually turned a profit,” David says proudly. 

“So close to Christmas?” 

“The idea came to me late.” 

“It’s a great idea, David. Can I see?” 

David nods emphatically and pulls boxes out of the stack that Patrick just brought, checking the return addresses as he goes. 

Patrick sips at his coffee and leans contentedly against the display table, admiring the snow that’s starting to gently fall from the steel-grey sky and the glow from the lights they put up reflecting off the window as David mutters to himself. 

David brings a box over to the table and when he sets it down something inside it tinkles ominously. David freezes and flicks a glance over at Patrick. 

“Shit, did one of them break?” Patrick asks, straightening. 

David furrows his brow and pulls the scissors open to cut the tape. It makes a rough tearing noise as he tugs it open and they both stare down in horror at the shattered glass inside. 

“Oh my god.” 

“Oh god, David, I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh my _god_.” 

“Maybe some of them on the bottom are still okay?” He rubs David's back and looks over his shoulder. 

David lifts the top eggshell carton full of ornament shards and underneath there are just… more. 

“It’s like someone dropped the whole thing from the top floor of the Chrysler building,” David says, his eyes wide. Oh, god. 

“I swear, David, it’s just been in my car and I didn’t -- I didn’t drop it. I didn’t know. I don’t know when or how this could have happened. I'm so sorry.” 

“My entire promotion,” David says blankly. “What do I do now? What am I going to tell people? I’m going to have to refund _everything_. Oh, my god.” He turns on his heel, his hands pressed to his face, and Patrick’s heart tugs with painful sympathy as the machinery in his head starts working. They can fix this. 

“Can you see what their return policy is? If they could just send you replacements with overnight shipping, you’re only losing a day. I could bring them here first thing in the morning and pick them up at the end of the day tomorrow.” 

“Christmas is in _four days_!” David says shrilly. 

“Which is why next year you’ll order them earlier. It’s going to be fine, David. Do you want me to call them? If you’re a business advertising their business they should be motivated to help you out.” 

“No, I can -- I can call them," David says, pulling himself upright. 

“Okay. I can help you file the claim with the post office, because it was definitely our fault and we should be able to facilitate getting replacements to you.” 

“It’s only eleven. Do you think they could send new ones by the end of the day?” 

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” 

“Okay.” 

Patrick rubs David’s shoulder and David takes a deep breath and lets it out, leaving him visibly calmer. 

“Can I use your computer while you call? I’ll file your claim online.” 

“Yeah, it’s in the back.” 

“Okay.” 

While Patrick goes through the online claim process on David’s old laptop, he listens to the timbre of David’s voice in the main room while he argues with the vendor. The back room is neatly organized if a little stuffed full of paperwork in piles, like David’s just kept everything that might be remotely necessary in the future. He doesn’t want to poke through David’s things, not when he clearly has David’s trust to be let back here like this, but he glances at the top sheet of the nearest pile and realizes that at least one stack is a bunch of printouts of sales receipts. 

“Oh, David,” he murmurs. 

On the desktop is a folder labeled IDEAS and Patrick is sorely tempted to open it but talks himself out of it. If he gets his shit together, by this time next week he and David will be working together on whatever ideas David’s come up with. He’ll get to help David bring them to fruition, and his stomach fizzes with excitement at the thought. 

But first, this. 

He gets the claim filed and writes down the confirmation number for David. He goes out to the main floor in time for David to hang up. 

“Okay, good news,” David says, holding one pointed finger in the air. “Their location is actually not that far from here, and they’re willing to make a direct delivery provided I order from them again, which is not ideal, but whatever. I can do a Valentine’s Day promotion; it’s fine.” 

“That’s great!” 

“Right. The bad news is that they won’t get here until after five and it’ll take me hours to get everything packaged to be sent out tomorrow morning,” David says, throwing his hands in the air. 

“I’ll help,” Patrick says immediately. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, of course. I’ll finish my route and clock out and then come back here to help. If you want, I can stop here first thing in the morning on my way to the post office and some of them with close addresses might even get delivered by the end of the day tomorrow.” 

“Oh my god,” David says, slumping with relief. “Oh my god, that would be -- yes. Yeah, yes, thank you.” 

He hugs Patrick and Patrick pats his back awkwardly, unsure if he should kiss his cheek or… What, exactly? He smells incredible and his sweater is soft and all Patrick wants is to kiss him, which is so not what he needs right now. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, driving away to finish his route. 

He spends the rest of his shift trying to pull himself together and by the time he gets back to the Apothecary it’s already dark out, the Christmas lights glowing in the windows. David greets him at the door again, his face flushed and his eyes wild. 

“They dropped them off twenty minutes ago,” David says, and tugs Patrick inside by his sleeve before locking the door behind him. 

There are four big flat boxes spread across the display table, shredded packing paper confettied around them. 

“Oh wow. Okay. Where are the packages you’re sending?” 

“In the back. Do you think these look good, though? Like, if you got one, would you order from here again and maybe tell your friends?” 

They’re tiny one-and-a-half-inch ornament balls, white with a black RA bookended with black roses just like in David’s logo. 

“They’re perfect,” Patrick says. They really are; they’re just… so David. 

“Oh good,” David says, sounding relieved. “I think so, too, but sometimes I just get… Anyway. Can you grab some orders, please, and I’ll start wrapping these up?” 

Patrick gives him a thumbs-up and goes into the side room and carefully piles in his arms as many half-packed boxes as he trusts himself to carry. He’s getting better at this, he realizes. It’s easier to balance, at least, than it was three weeks ago. 

Patrick sets out the Apothecary order boxes on the register counter and David starts moving wrapped ornaments from the eggshell crate material into the boxes, which Patrick then tapes up and moves aside and goes to get more boxes. They work together really well, he thinks, and lets himself hope: they could be _really good_ together. 

At some point, David’s stomach growls audibly, and he pauses his ornament-wrapping to say, “Um. Would you be offended if I ate something?” 

“I could eat. Do you want me to run across the street to pick up some food?” 

“Yes. Or we could have some of the cheese that I conveniently have stocked in my refrigeration unit. I also have artisanal crackers and hummus.” 

“Are you paying for it?” 

"It's my store," David says dismissively and goes to grab the cheese and hummus from the fridge and some crackers from a basket next to it and then a bottle of red wine from the shelf below that. 

“Uh huh. Well, this looks very nutritious." 

“Shut up,” David says, grinning, wagging the bottle at him. “I’ve had a very long day and I deserve this.” 

“Are you sharing?” 

“If I must.” 

“Please.” 

David heaves a dramatic sigh but he gets two glasses from underneath the counter. 

“So. Cheers.” 

“Cheers, David.” He takes a sip and nearly moans. “That's amazing.” 

“Right?” David says, pleased. “Maybe in the new year I should do wine tasting nights or something.” 

“That’s a great idea.” 

“I just need to survive the holidays and then I can plan ahead.” 

“Right,” Patrick says, and swigs another gulp of wine. Four days. He has four days left with David before he doesn’t have an excuse to see him every day; four days to figure this out. If David accepts his offer to work together, though, maybe.... 

David stuffs a wedge of cheese into his mouth and groans. “God, this is good. I usually hate goat cheese, but this is more than palatable. Here, try some.” 

He holds out a piece and Patrick can’t tell if he means for Patrick to eat it from his fingers or take it and then eat it and he takes it, to be safe, but can’t read David’s expression. It’s off-putting, because usually David is so easy to read. But maybe that’s part of a defense mechanism: easy to read when he’s joking or being dramatic and inscrutable when something really matters. 

He wants to learn all of this; he wants to be there for David after the holidays and brainstorm new marketing ideas with him and get to be at his side for dinners of more than cheese and wine. He wants to kiss him good morning and good night and just because; he wants to have David smiling at him all the time; he wants to be around him all the time. 

He wants so much and he thinks that maybe it might be time to accept that this isn’t a small or passing thing. This is, maybe, something he needs to deal with soon. He has to be the person he always thought he was and find the fucking courage to be _honest_ and tell David how he feels. 

David pops the rest of the goat cheese into his mouth while Patrick is distracted and blinks innocently at him when Patrick reaches for more to find that it’s gone. 

“It’s my cheese,” David says defensively through a full mouth. 

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.” His voice wavers on the word but David doesn't seem to notice as he crunches down on a cracker. 

“Friends is one thing. Food privileges are a different tier.” 

“Stevie?” 

“No.” 

“Alexis?”

“Hell no.” 

“What are we talking, marriage?” 

“Marriage is, like, the first step. _Beyond_ marriage.” 

“Wow.” 

“And maybe not even then. And you might guess how unlikely it is for me to find someone who’ll want to make it that far with me, so I think I’m safe.” 

Patrick swallows and clenches the fist not holding his glass, something rumbling in his head, words caught in his throat. “David, I…” 

“Come on. Let’s finish and then you can go back home to Ray.” 

“...You know that Ray and I are just roommates, right?” 

“Isn’t that what they all say?” There’s a mischievous glint in David’s eye and Patrick groans. 

“That was awful. _Ray_. God.” 

“On your first date he would offer to reorganize your closet. Win-win.” 

“He’s so sweet, though.” 

“Okay, I’ll trust your judgment on that,” David says. He waves his wine glass at the rest of the ornaments. “Shall we?” 

“I’ll get more orders,” Patrick says wearily. “How many are there?” 

“I don’t know. Like, a hundred?” 

Patrick freezes. “David.” 

“What?” 

“Oh my god.” 

“What?!” 

“I was thinking, like, thirty.” 

David winces and says, “Sorry?” 

Patrick just pats his arm as he passes to go into the side room to get more boxes. 

“Do you want more wine?” David shouts from the main room. Patrick looks at the rest of the boxes piled on top of the futon, which he’d thought were for future orders, and sighs. 

“Yeah, thanks!” 

Sometime after midnight they finish packing all of the boxes and David’s playlist has somehow shifted to the upbeat holiday music that he’d sworn he’d never allow to play here. When Patrick points this out, he just says defensively that Mariah Carey always gets a pass. 

They’re sitting next to each other on the floor, leaning back against the register counter, legs stretched out towards the display table stacked with packages for Patrick to pick up in the morning. 

“Hey, David?” He’s truly exhausted at this point, way past the point of needing to just pass the fuck out, and his filter is gone and maybe that’s why he says it: “I’ve had a really good time getting to know you.” 

David rolls his head against the front of the counter to look over at Patrick with his temple pressed to the wood. 

“Me too,” David says softly. 

“I mean, I really… You know my fianceé and I ended our engagement before I moved here.” 

“Right.” 

“And I -- I’m gay.” 

“I had wondered.” 

“I'm out and my family knows, but I’d never, um. Kissed a guy before you.” His voice shakes and he’s sweating but David’s gaze on him is even and calm and he just looks at him and he feels like he can do this. 

“Oh.” 

“Could we -- I’d like to do it again. If that’s okay.” 

The corner of David’s mouth flickers a smile. “You’re in luck.” 

“What?” 

David nods up at the ceiling. “Mistletoe.” 

Feeling very turned around, Patrick looks up and sure enough there’s a sprig of something green just off to the side above the refrigerator, where it would never actually be over someone’s head. 

“Stevie put it up there. She thought it was funny, you know, how when you buy a bottle of juice you end up ‘kissing’ it.” David does air quotes and rolls his eyes and Patrick tries to keep breathing. 

“David, are you --” 

“Hey,” David says, slipping a hand across Patrick’s jaw, leaning so close Patrick can see individual eyelashes and the purple wine stain on his lower lip. “It’s okay,” he whispers, his breath soft against Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick kisses him hard, desperately, needing him. 

Joy is here, too, and the relief of _oh, this is what I was looking for_. He runs a hand up David’s chest, relishing the solidity of him under his sweater, and David swings his leg over Patrick’s lap, straddling him and leaning down to kiss him deeply. 

Patrick’s never been the short one, not ever, and he almost whimpers into David’s mouth; he’s surrounded by him, overwhelmed by him; his heart beats _more please more please more_. 

“People can see us,” David murmurs against Patrick’s mouth, his thumb brushing Patrick’s cheekbone. 

“Uh huh,” Patrick says dumbly, his entire world narrowed to David. 

“Want to move somewhere more comfortable?” 

“Okay.” 

David turns off the lights, leaving only the string of Christmas lights around the windows, and leads him by the hand into the side room and onto the futon, newly cleared of boxes. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the kind of guy to own a futon,” Patrick says, his heart racing. 

“Okay, no,” David says, straddling Patrick again like it’s easy, like it’s nothing, like Patrick’s brain isn’t at risk of shorting just by having David in his lap like this. “It was advertised as a loveseat.” 

“You really have got to read product listings before you buy things.” 

“Shut up,” David murmurs, leaning down to kiss him. Patrick’s mouth is starting to chafe against David’s stubble and that’s another new thing that just makes it all so incredible. David is heavy on top of him and taller than he is and unmistakably male and he kisses Patrick almost sweetly and, god, Patrick could combust. What was he waiting for? 

He surges up against David’s mouth and David hums, rubbing a thumb across Patrick’s chin; Patrick drops his mouth open automatically and David kisses him deeper, tonguing Patrick’s lip, sliding a hand around his waist to tug his hips up against David’s. 

David's cock is hard against his and the pressure is _delicious_ and David holds him there, close, overwhelmed, as Patrick's kisses grow sloppy and wet. David reaches down to squeeze Patrick's ass through his jeans and sucks at Patrick's pulse point, lighting up his entire brain. 

“Oh fuck,” Patrick gasps. David laughs against his mouth and rocks his hips down and Patrick _moans_ involuntarily. 

“Hey, do you want --” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says immediately. “Yes.” 

David presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw and runs a hand down Patrick’s chest, across his navel, to his belt buckle. Needing to put his mouth on him, Patrick mouths at David’s neck, the stubble there scraping against his already-sensitive skin. 

The metallic sound of his belt buckle is a ringing bell bringing him back to the present, but only until David works open his jeans button and slowly bumps down his zipper in what might be the most erotic sound Patrick has ever heard, combined with David's breathing growing heavier above him, around him. 

David looks him in the eye as he slides his hand into Patrick’s open jeans, over his underwear; his eyes are blown dark, his mouth red, and Patrick presses a wet, open kiss to his swollen lips. 

David fondles his cock through the fabric of his underwear, gently at first, until Patrick whispers, “Please,” feeling so open and exposed and still safe, here, with David covering him bodily. 

David nods and slips his hand into Patrick’s boxers, stroking him bare, and Patrick’s back arches, overheated, overwhelmed. He's never been like this before, never lost himself to sex like this before; he knew having sex with a man would be different but David lights him up from within. 

“Oh my god.” 

“Yeah,” David breathes, pulling everything in Patrick down through his cock, centering him on the hot pleasure intensifying at the base of his stomach. But David -- David -- 

“Can I --” Patrick reaches for David’s pants and David nods, wide-eyed, staring at Patrick’s face as he fumbles the button-fly and clumsily reaches into his underwear to get a hand around David’s cock. He’s barely breathing as he holds David, the warmth and girth of him in his palm. 

“You can, um.” 

“Right, sorry,” Patrick says, feeling himself blush. 

He strokes David, trying not to let it show that the angle feels off until David starts kissing him again, deeply enough that he loses himself again to David’s mouth and the rocking of David’s hips as he jerks him off and the heat building in his groin with David’s sure hand working his cock. 

He presses his forehead to David's temple, slick with sweat, his lower lip dragging up David's cheek, David shuddering above him. 

It feels like they're melding together, becoming one, their breaths growing heavier; Patrick's thumb twists on the head of David's cock and they both gasp. David's thumb strokes Patrick's cheekbone and tugs down his lip and Patrick moans something he's never felt before. 

“That’s right,” David pants. “Come on, Patrick.” 

He thumbs at Patrick’s nipple through his shirt as he twists his hand just right on Patrick’s dick and Patrick gasps, “David -- please --” 

“Yeah, honey.” 

“Please --” 

“I’ve got you.” He kisses Patrick wetly and presses their foreheads together. Patrick can't form _words_. “You’re so beautiful, Patrick, I’ve got you, let go --” 

“Oh, _fuck_ \--” 

When the orgasm hits his body _rolls_ with it and his mouth falls open in a soundless gasp as David strokes him through the tidal wave. When he starts to come back to himself he blinks up at David, who smiles down at him, dark-eyed and flushed. 

“Thank you, David,” he says softly. David nods and moves like he’s going to get up but Patrick keeps him close with a hand on his waist, relishing the sweat coming through on his lower back. “Wait, did you…?” 

“No. It’s fine; don’t worry.” 

“Can I?” 

“I -- sure,” David says, looking a little confused, as if Patrick would want anything else. 

Patrick presses a kiss to his neck and starts stroking him again, trying to find the rhythm that got David so flushed. 

He looks like he should be _painted_ ; it’s a shame the world doesn’t know how gorgeous he is, although Patrick feels selfishly pleased to be included in the small number of people who do. 

Here, in this little room off the Apothecary, it’s just the two of them, just Patrick’s hand drawing David closer to release as he learns the changes in his breath, in the scrunch of his forehead as he concentrates on his pleasure. 

Patrick kisses the side of his neck, the join of his jaw, and reaches down into David’s pants with his other hand to roll his balls across his fingers as he pulls him off; David, beautiful, chokes, “Oh --” and comes right into Patrick’s hand in warm white spurts. 

Patrick hungrily watches David come down and blink heavily at him. David rolls off to the side and motions for the tissue box on the little table behind him; Patrick grabs it and wipes off the worst of the mess, but he's still tingling. 

“Don’t make me move right now,” David mumbles, stretching out along the back of the futon, casual with the body that should be worshipped. 

“You don’t make me first,” Patrick says instead, wriggling so that he’s not in danger of falling off, his nose in David's sweaty hair, David's temple on his shoulder. He could _cry_. 

“That doesn’t make sense.” 

“Shh.” 

That really happened. He and David really just had sex; they had _really good_ sex. He already can't wait to do it again and his heart feels like it's glowing out at David. 

David, David, David; the smell of him, the heat of him, his smile and warmth and prickliness and cleverness and passion.... 

_Bliss_ is the word, he thinks, and can't stop smiling, but exhaustion and David’s body heat pull him under. 

It seems like no time passes at all before Patrick blinks awake and realizes that that’s the pale dawn light coming in through the window, and remembers that he promised to bring David’s orders to the post office first thing to get them out as soon as possible. He turns his head to see David dead to the world inches away, breathing hotly onto Patrick’s shoulder. 

Not wanting to wake him up unnecessarily, Patrick tenderly brushes David's hair out of his face and slowly shifts himself off of the futon, wincing at the ache in his back, and tiptoes out into the main room. He finds his phone on the register counter and checks the time; if he hurries, he can make it back to Ray’s to change on his way to the post office. 

He’s bone-tired by the time he makes it back to the Apothecary on his route later in the morning, and at first he doesn’t think anything of David’s stiffness, attributing it instead to him being just as tired. But when he leans in to kiss him, David steps away. 

“Last night was a mistake,” David says hoarsely. He has a hickey on the base of his neck and Patrick vaguely remembers putting it there last night. 

“What?” Patrick asks blankly, having trouble computing this. 

“It shouldn’t have happened. I’m already so busy trying to keep this store going and I can’t take on another complication.” 

David doesn’t look at him as he says this and his eyes look oddly shiny and Patrick just doesn’t _understand_ but he understands enough. 

“Okay. I’m sorry if I -- I’m sorry.” 

“Mhm.” 

“I, um. I dropped off your packages this morning and you should be good to go now.” 

“Thank you,” David says stiffly. 

Patrick turns to go. He looks over his shoulder as he walks out the door; there’s no more mistletoe over the refrigerator, and David isn’t looking back. 

### Thursday, December 24th

Ted invites him to go night tobogganing on Christmas Eve and, figuring that he likely won’t be doing anything else for Christmas besides eating yet another sad dinner for one at Ray’s, Patrick agrees to go along. It's been a hard few days. 

“So what happened?” Ted asks as they wait in line to rent the toboggan. It’s another fundraiser to remove asbestos from the town, inexplicably. 

“We slept together,” Patrick says under his breath. 

“And?” 

“And he said it was a mistake.” 

“Ouch,” Ted says with a sympathetic wince. “Sorry, bud.” 

“Thanks. I just… don’t really know what happened. I was going to put together a proposal for us to work together and now I don’t think I can. I really… fudged it up,” he says, editing himself quickly when he realizes they’re at the front of the line with Jocelyn beaming at them, her money collection tin out in front of her. “Thanks, Jocelyn.” 

“Have fun, boys!” she says. “You can have that one.” 

“Wait, but we’re two people,” Ted says. 

“Yes, but each sled seats two.” 

“But we’re not here _together_ ,” Patrick says. 

“It’s fine,” Ted says, smiling politely at Jocelyn. “No problem.” 

Ted tugs the toboggan from the rack and Patrick follows him over to the big hill, which has strings of softball-sized lights illuminating each side of the sledding area. 

“Just what you need to take your mind off things,” Ted says cheerfully. 

“I can’t figure out what I did wrong,” Patrick tells him as they climb the hill, sledders racing down past them. His new Columbia snow boots are stiff and dig into his shins but his feet are warm and dry and it almost makes him want to cry. 

“Sometimes it just doesn’t work out,” Ted offers. “What did you say when you told him how you felt?” 

“I…” Patrick thinks back. “I think I just told him that this was new to me.” 

“Okay,” Ted says slowly. “But you told him that you like him a lot and want to date him, right?” 

“Um. We didn’t really talk much before it happened, and then I didn’t want to wake him up when I left.” 

“So what you’re telling me is that you slept together, you left while he was still sleeping, and no one actually communicated that it was anything more than a hookup, and now you don’t understand why he got defensive?” 

Patrick stands at the top of the hill, looking down, and kind of wishes he could just throw himself down it. He'd felt it, he knows he did, but how had he not said anything? He'd said the easy, straightforward thing, but somehow he still has trouble with the full truth of it, the part of it that puts his heart on the line: he loves David. 

He loves David. Oh, god, David. 

“I’m the worst,” he realizes, horrified. 

“Ah, you’re not that bad.” Ted pats his shoulder. “Front or back?” 

“What?” 

Ted points to the toboggan he’s holding standing up on its end. Luckily, before he can answer, someone shrieks Ted’s name and it rings out briefly before being swallowed up by the snow. 

“Alexis!” Ted says happily. “What are you doing here?” 

“We had to drag David out of the room. Stevie and I rock-paper-scissored who would be the one to have to take him tonight and I lost today.” 

“Hi, Alexis,” Patrick says to let her know that he’s here, waving awkwardly, not wanting her to say something she doesn’t want him hearing. 

“Oh, hi! Are you miserable, too?” 

“He is,” Ted tells her before Patrick can answer. She pouts at him. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “David wouldn’t be moping so much if he didn’t love you back. I’m sure you’ll work it out.” The wind gusts and blows her hair in her face. “Ugh, Stevie. She cheats, I'm sure of it. Patrick,” she adds with an ingratiating smile, "would you mind if I went down with Ted? Just this once.” 

“I guess, sure.” 

“Thanks a sled-load!” Ted says, as if Patrick could deny him the sheer bliss on his face when Alexis wrinkles her nose and gets on the toboggan with him anyway. Ted pushes them off down the hill, Alexis snug in his arms. Patrick aches. 

“Alexis!” David shouts from behind him, hurrying by to the crest of the hill. “What the hell,” he says to himself, and then seems to realize that Patrick’s standing there. “Oh.” 

“Hi, David.” 

“Patrick. What are you doing here?” 

“Ted invited me. Look, can we talk?” 

David crosses his arms and stands rigid in his long wool coat, its sleek fit making him look taller and leaner, his earmuffs puffing cutely around his head. 

“Um. I bought the boots,” Patrick says lamely, lifting one from the snow. David raises a single eyebrow and Patrick's heart starts to sink. 

“They got here fast. I’m guessing you bought them from Amazon?” 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I know they’re your nemesis, I just really needed them sooner --” 

“It’s fine,” David interrupts sharply. “If you’re not going to be here long enough to wait for standard shipping, Amazon makes sense.” 

“What? No, David, I’m -- Look, about the other night --” 

“You _really_ don’t have to.” 

“I think I -- I think I do,” he says desperately, and steps to the side to let a mother and daughter pair go by with their toboggan. “I meant to talk to you before, um, that happened.” 

“Okay.” 

“I think you’re incredible,” Patrick says in a rush. “I like you, so much, and I know my life isn't together yet but this feels _real_ and I needed to tell you that.” 

David doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his head tilted down and away like he can’t bring himself to look at Patrick directly, and then asks stiffly, “What are you saying, exactly?” 

“I _like_ you, David.” 

“I’m the first man you’ve ever been with.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You just got out of a long-term relationship.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re asking me to, what, be your big gay experiment?” 

“No!” Patrick says, horrified. “ _No_. I like _you_ , David.” 

“How do you know that?” David asks, finally looking at him with coal-dark eyes, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re in the middle of a very valid sexuality quest and that’s great for you but I can’t give your life meaning.” 

“That’s not what I --” 

“I have been through a lot,” David says, his voice shaking. “It has taken me a lot to get to where I am and I am not going to let you put me up on some dream fixation pedestal when all I can do is fall from it.” 

“David, that’s not what I’m doing.” 

“How do you know?” David asks, his voice breaking, now. Patrick feels close to tears. “ _I_ barely know who I am, so how do you know you really want _me_?” 

“Well, that was fun!” Alexis interrupts, Ted in tow. There’s something burning in Patrick’s throat and he wants to _scream_ with it but he takes his cue from David’s silence and smothers it instead. He sniffs and brushes his glove under his eye, hoping no one notices. 

“Is everything okay here?” Ted asks, glancing between Patrick and David. 

“Sure is,” David says falsely. “Alexis, can we go now? This wind is chapping my skin and there is a face mask at home with my name on it.” 

“Ugh, fine.” She kisses Ted’s cheek and lets David drag her down the hill, bickering with him about whose face mask it really is. 

“Are you really okay?” Ted asks, resting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. 

“No,” he says honestly. “I think I know what to do next, though.” 

“That’s the spirit. One ride for the road?” 

Patrick looks at the toboggan apprehensively before sighing. 

“Fine; let’s go.” 

“Awesome.” 

It’s the quickest way down, in any case, and as the lights and trees rush by he thinks he sees David turn his head. 

### Friday, December 25th

It’s his last day as a post office employee and it feels less bittersweet than it otherwise might, since he knows that he’s not actually _leaving_ any of the people he's met; they'll just be his neighbors and friends, now. Rania actually seems upset at him leaving the post office, which is surprising, but it’s a little gratifying to know that he did something right. 

Ray claims to have a surprise for Patrick to celebrate his last day in the temporary job and his potential imminent full-time employment at Ray’s office. The surprise, Ray reveals almost immediately as soon as Patrick gets home from work, is a comped ticket to the Jazzagals Christmas concert and the cold pancakes he’d apparently put aside from breakfast. 

“Thanks, Ray,” Patrick says weakly. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it to the show, though.” 

“Nonsense,” Ray says. “You told me that you don’t have any Christmas plans. I remember these things, you know.” 

“I know. I appreciate it.” 

“Now I’m sure you’ll want to talk to your family before we go, but I must be at the auditorium early to help the council set up for the show. They ordered all of their pamphlets and posters through me,” he says proudly. 

“Nicely done. Are you sure you have to leave now, though?” he asks pathetically. He’s trying to put off talking to his mom, and he knows it’s a coward’s move, but he just needs a little time to figure out what to say. 

“Patrick,” Ray says gently. “Talk to your mother. Talk to David. Everything will work out.” 

_The sign of a good friend,_ he thinks. Patrick smiles weakly and Ray hums _I Saw Three Ships_ as he puts on his coat and hat. 

Silence rings in the house after Ray leaves until the radiator kicks on. Patrick goes to his room and sits on his bed, on the quilt that looks homemade, and turns his phone in his hand. 

He just has to do it. He might never come up with the perfect thing to say to get his mom to understand why he left the life that had been planned out for him, but he has to try if he wants to move forward. Maybe there is no perfect thing to say. He just has to hit dial and try. 

“Patrick?” 

“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” 

“How was it? Did Grandma make her cherry-apple pie?” 

“She made pumpkin this year, actually.” 

“Oh.” 

“We missed you.” 

“I missed you, too. I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” 

“Today was your last day at work, right?” 

“It was.” 

“I bet everyone was sad to see you go.” 

“Yeah, Rania almost cried,” he says, smiling at the memory. She had suddenly “gotten dust in her eye” and had to excuse herself while he was clocking out. 

“I’m glad you had such a nice boss.” 

“Thank you, Mom. Um. Can I say something? I know you didn’t approve of me coming here, but I really think it was the right thing for me. I do. And maybe I can’t explain it, but it just… I feel like it’s put me on a better path. I think I can be happy here in a way I never was in Toronto.” 

“I’m so glad, honey.” 

Patrick closes his eyes against the sudden rush of tears and wishes she were here. 

“I’m sorry if it seemed like I wasn’t going to support you,” she says, and now she sounds like she’s getting choked up. If she cries, he’ll lose it. “I just worry about you, bug.” 

“I know.” 

“But I talked to Rachel and I think she might have been feeling the same way. I hate to think what you two almost put yourselves through just because you thought that was what we wanted. I just want you to be happy, Patrick.” 

“I love you, Mom.” 

“I love you so much, my beautiful boy.” Patrick sniffs and wipes at his eyes. “So what’s next for you?” 

“Um, well. My roommate Ray has offered me a position with his business. It would be consulting with local small businesses to help them get up and running, make sure their taxes are covered, that kind of thing.” 

“That sounds great, honey.” 

“But I was also thinking…. There’s a store here in town and I sort of became friends with the owner and I thought that maybe I could help him with his business. It’s incredible, Mom: he contracts with local vendors to rebrand their items under his label on a consignment basis and he just has a whole different way of seeing things that makes it so unique and the way his mind works is just amazing. It would be more of a challenge and not necessarily a steady paycheck, but….” 

“But it seems like that’s what you really want to do.” 

“Yeah, it is. If he wants me to.” 

“And this friend, he’s nice?” 

“He’s… very nice.” 

“Oh, ‘very nice?’” 

“Mom,” he says with a laugh, and she laughs with him. 

“Tell me about him.” 

“His name’s David….” 

By the time Patrick gets to the auditorium he’s running a little late. He has to leave his car on the side of the road and makes his way through the full parking lot to the closed double doors with trepidation. 

He remembers David saying he would probably be here and his heart starts to race. He wants to see him, to explain, and even if David hears him out entirely and still says no, at least then he’ll have an answer. If David doesn't think they can even work together after this, he still has a job with Ray. And he has friends in Ray and Ted and maybe even Stevie if she doesn’t feel like her loyalties are being divided. It will be fine. He’d be upset and hurt, but eventually he’d be fine. 

He just has to find the courage to be honest. 

The Jazzagals singing group are already on stage when he sneaks into the back of the auditorium, singing an a cappella 12 Days of Christmas medley, and he can pretty easily pick out Jocelyn, Ronnie, and David’s mom among them. They look like they’re having a good time and the audience dressed to the nines in red and green laughs and cheers with them on cue when they make jokey substitutions to the song: "On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: two cups of Twyla’s coffee!" 

Patrick edges into an empty spot against the wall along the side of the auditorium with the other standing-room audience members, and laughs with the crowd when they break out into the Africa by Toto melody to sing, "On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: twelve full motel rooms, like Olympus upon the Serengeti!" 

He knows bone-deep that this community is exactly the right fit for him, that even if David doesn’t return his feelings this is where he needs to be. And maybe he will move on eventually, but he doesn’t need to plan for that now. 

He just needs to move in the right direction, towards working a job that is fulfilling and lets him go home feeling like he’s actually _done_ something, towards being with someone who loves him and who he loves completely. And he can try, he thinks as the song finishes and the crowd bursts into applause. 

Courage doesn’t come in a bright light shining down from overhead; it’s the knowledge burrowed in his chest that this is what he has to do given where he’s standing and where he wants to be, and having faith that things will work out from there. 

The music changes and the pianist plunks gentle, deliberate notes that sound sort of familiar as a bright spotlight aims at centerstage. 

Moira steps out into the spotlight and sings low and slow, “I don’t want a lot for Christmas….” 

Patrick thinks of David saying _Mariah Carey always gets a pass_ and wonders if he worked with his mom to rehearse this, if he’s here in the audience somewhere. 

“There is just one thing I need….” The rest of the group “Ooh-ooh-ooh” behind her. “I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree….” 

Patrick glances around the auditorium, the audience’s faces partly illuminated by the glare of the spotlight, and his eyes lock with David’s across the auditorium where he’s sitting with Stevie and Alexis and Ted. 

“I just want you for my own,” Moira sings, and he and David stare at each other across the room, everything around Patrick slowing down as he stops breathing. 

“More than you could ever know. Make my wish come true….” David doesn’t look away and Stevie looks around to see what he’s staring at but all Patrick can see is David’s face. “All I want for Christmas… is you….” 

The pianist goes off on the riff into the chorus and the rest of the group joins in with the uptempo, “I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need....” 

David stands abruptly and shoves his way out of his seat into the aisle on the other side of the room. Without thinking about it Patrick leaves his spot by the wall, up the aisle, out to the lobby, and sees the end of David’s scarf whipping through the closing door. 

He grabs the handle and hurls himself out into the snow that must have just started falling, so much that he can barely see more than a few yards in front of him. 

“David!” he shouts. The dark figure ahead stops in his tracks, letting Patrick catch up with him. “David, please.” 

“What?” David says, his voice thick as he turns around. “What do you want?” 

“David, I’m staying. I’m staying in Schitt’s Creek. I was going to tell you after the holidays because you were so busy but then everything got all messed up and -- I have a proposal for us to work together.” 

“You -- what?” 

Patrick takes a breath and tries to slow down; this wasn't what he'd meant to say first. “Because you’re a small business working with local vendors I can get you grants for additional funding, and I can help with your online store, and I have some ideas to help bring in foot traffic.” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“Because I want to. Because, David, you have something really wonderful and I’d like to be a part of it.” 

“You want to help me out at my store,” David says slowly. 

“ _Yes_.” 

David swallows and tilts his head back like he’s trying to stop tears from falling and, fuck, Patrick’s missed something. 

“No,” David says finally. “I don’t think I can do that.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I like you!” David explodes. “I _like_ you, and I can’t just... I can’t just be a hookup for you. I need more than that. And working together would just... it would just be too hard. I can’t do it.” 

Patrick’s brain blanks out and echoing out from the lobby the Jazzagals sing something new: “ _Long lay the world, in sin and error pining_.” 

“Wait, you… like me?” 

David folds his arms and nods, not looking at him, and Patrick’s breath catches on hope. _Oh, David._

“David. David, look at me, please.” He pries David’s arms loose and David reluctantly lifts his chin, meeting Patrick’s eyes, and Patrick loves him. 

“ _A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices_ ,” the chorus sings.

The snow falls heavily around them, dotting David’s dark hair with white, the opposite of the snowy owl but just as beautiful. Patrick smiles helplessly up at him, loving him. “ _For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Fall on your knees_ ….” 

“David, I’m in love with you. I love how passionate you are, I love the way you tease me, I love that you care so much. I love how funny and competitive you are, and how you're never on time. I love that you researched boots for me, and that you accidentally bought a futon, and that you moved heaven and earth to get your customers the ornaments the post office broke. I should have told you before. I don’t know how everything got so mixed up but I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I think I…. I think I was scared of that leap into the unknown.” 

David’s eyes are wet but his mouth twitches at their old joke and the chorus sings in perfect harmony and Patrick lifts a hand to David’s perfect cheek. He takes the leap. 

“I love you. I want to _be_ with you. In whatever way you want.” 

David’s mouth parts and Patrick holds his breath, waiting, until David starts to smile and Patrick’s heart soars with joy. 

With one gloved hand tender on his shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, David pulls him in for a soft kiss that turns demanding and Patrick kisses him back, speaking all of the yearning and love and relief he's desperate with. One of them is crying and one of them has chapped lips and none of it matters; he loses himself to David, David, David. 

He feels like everything is finally right in this moment, and so good that the light in his chest might burst out of him. The chorus sings its triumphant “ _Noel, noel, oh night, oh night divine,_ ” and Patrick wraps his arms around David’s back, holding him closer still as the snow swirls around them. 

### Epilogue: Thursday, December 31st

Half an hour after they were supposed to be at Ted’s for his New Year’s Resolution “Just Fondue It” party, Patrick is fully dressed and ready to go and David is, of course, running late, so he opens his laptop to look through the Apothecary’s sales records for last January that he finished uploading this week. He compares the sales to David’s projections for this coming January, trying to figure out when would be the best time to start promoting the Valentine’s Day ornaments. 

He’s so absorbed in it that he doesn’t hear the doorbell ring, and almost jumps when someone knocks on his open bedroom door. 

“David!” 

“Hi,” David says, leaning against the door jamb, smiling fondly down at him. He’s wearing a glittery silver sweater and his favorite black jeans under his unbuttoned gorgeous wool coat and he looks like a dream. “What are we doing in here?” 

David crosses the room in long strides to lean over Patrick’s shoulder, his hand coming up to absently rub at the seam of Patrick's sweater. His coat is cold against Patrick’s neck, but instead of moving away he tilts his head against David's. 

“Looking at your records from last January.” 

“That was almost a year ago! I’m doing much better now.” 

“I know, but I just wanted to get an idea of when the bulk of sales come during the month.” Patrick switches over to the pivot chart he made and draws his finger across the line graph, showing him where the bumps are just after the new year and then again at the end of the month in the buildup to Valentine's Day. 

“Oh, right. Look at you, working hard on a holiday. Are you ready to go?” David rubs Patrick’s shoulders. 

“I’ve been ready,” Patrick says mildly, saving the spreadsheet before closing his laptop. David lifts his eyebrows and doesn’t step back as Patrick gets up, so they’re almost nose to nose. 

“Hi,” David says again, his mouth curving in a pleased smile. Patrick kisses him, he can’t not, and David smiles into it as he wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. 

“Knock knock!” Ray cheerfully interrupts. David pulls away from Patrick’s mouth with a slight grimace. “Patrick, do you want to take a bag of tortilla chips with you to Ted’s party?” 

“Okay,” Patrick says, resigned, his hand still on David's waist. “Thanks, Ray.” 

“Excellent! They’ve been in the pantry for ages.” Ray ducks out of the room and Patrick sighs. 

“They sound delicious,” David says teasingly. 

“Hey, hold on,” Patrick says, gently wrapping a hand around the back of David’s neck to keep him close, warm in the fondness of his gaze. 

“Mm.” 

“Happy New Year, David.” 

David smiles, small and dimpled like he's overwhelmed, and says softly, “Happy New Year, Patrick.” 

Patrick leans up to kiss him gently, champagne bubbles fizzing in his chest, wrapped in his arms, loving him entirely. 

“Knock knock!” Ray says again. 

“Holy fuck,” David mutters against Patrick’s mouth. 

“Ray,” Patrick says, his patience thinning. 

“Here you are! I packed some guacamole, too,” Ray says, holding up the chips and a tupperware container. 

“Thanks, Ray,” he says. David squeezes his shoulder and Patrick takes the hint. “I guess we should head out.” 

“Okay, just a warning," David says, taking his arm, "Stevie has already started on the champagne, and she is looking for someone to kiss at midnight even though she says it’s an archaic tradition." 

“I think you’ll find you have someone else to kiss when the ball drops,” Patrick says, taking the chips and guacamole from Ray with a grateful smile. 

“I’d better,” David says, grinning back at him. God, what a dream. 

Before he leaves Patrick glances back at his room and clicks off the light. The next time he’ll be here it’ll be at the start of a whole new year with David by his side and the future wide open. There’s no way to plan for it all, but it’ll be full of fun and love and he can’t wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> A list of songs mentioned, excluding the chipmunk one, because like David I refuse:  
> Last Christmas - Wham! (but also Ariana Grande)  
> Step into Christmas - Elton John  
> Christmas/Sarajevo 12/24 - Trans-Siberian Orchestra  
> I’ll Be Home for Christmas - Michael Bublé  
> Christmas Lights - Coldplay  
> Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Judy Garland  
> Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Mariah Carey (apologies to Darlene Love)  
> I Saw Three Ships - traditional  
> The 12 Days of Christmas (Live) - Straight No Chaser (the live one has the right vibe)  
> All I Want for Christmas is You - Mariah Carey  
> O Holy Night - Mariah Carey
> 
> I didn’t even intentionally add Mariah three times. She just… gets it. Honorary mentions go to the true holiday bops: Stevie Wonder’s What Christmas Means to Me, Aretha Franklin’s Joy to the World, and Ariana Grande's Santa Tell Me. Just pretend they’re playing in the credits.
> 
> ETA: Thank you all VERY VERY much for your kind comments!! It might take me a while to go through each individually but I am so so appreciative. I set out to write a straight-to-Netflix Christmassy romcom and it makes me so happy that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, I recommend watching Mariah's new Christmas special because it is truly a delight.
> 
> You can reblog this [here](https://middyblue.tumblr.com/post/638042917136728064/neither-snow-nor-rain-chapters-44-fandom) and find me on tumblr at [middyblue](https://middyblue.tumblr.com).
> 
> Finally, a big big thank you to the mods for running this and the other creators for writing and baking and singing and drawing such amazing amazing works of art!


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